


Come In From The Cold

by deathbycoldopen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Business Rivals, Class Differences, Illegal Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbycoldopen/pseuds/deathbycoldopen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel Angelios moves to town to eventually fill his brother’s old position in the family business, he never expected to be enlisted in an increasingly antagonistic prank war between his family and another. Nor did he expect to meet someone like Dean Winchester, the charming and beautiful owner of the cafe across the street. But while Castiel attempts to navigate the line between loyalty to his family, and strengthening this fledgeling friendship, he discovers that both sides are using illegal magics to get ahead, jeopardizing everything that Castiel has built for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 [DeanCas Big Bang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/) on livejournal. Art by the unbelievably fabulous [Phrixy](http://phrixy.deviantart.com/). (view art masterpost [here](http://deathbycoldopen.livejournal.com/608.html))
> 
> Thanks for reading!

When Eve Angelios married Joshua Novak, the owner of a modest cafe just off the city center, it didn't cause much of a stir at all amongst those who really mattered.  Then again, it had been a long time since anyone in the Angelios family cause any kind of a stir in the high society circles where they once moved so easily, not since their fall from grace ten years before.  As far as any of their former friends and acquaintances were concerned- if they bothered to think about it at all- the Angelios family was no longer one of their number, and it was therefore perfectly fitting that their youngest daughter married a shop owner.  Some of the more kind-hearted among them may have murmured that it was a shame that such a charming girl had been left to struggle in a shop instead of in the company of more civilized people.  But that was the extent of their concern; nobody thought any more of the fate of Eve Angelios.

Until Joshua and Eve began working at regaining the Angelios' former empire.

They began with expanding his business, acquiring more property, taking huge risks that ought to have left them in ruin but somehow always succeeded.  When they had purchased most of the properties on the street where Joshua's cafe stood (excepting a single stubborn shop owner who refused to sell no matter how tempting the offer) their former friends began to pay attention.  They watched as Joshua and Eve painstakingly climbed their way back up the social ladder, and they called them misguided fools, brazen upstarts, an arrogant shop owner and his wife with delusions of grandeur, who would never be admitted into their illustrious ranks.

But the fact of the matter was, shop owner or not, Joshua was a shrewd businessman; and the charm that had so entranced society circles when Eve was a girl was now being put to good use- uncanny use, some whispered, before being shushed with scandalized looks.  Joshua's business sense, Eve's coy smile, and the Angelios name were all used like weapons; and by the time their first son, Michael, was born, they had clawed their way back into the lower rung of high society.

Their second son, Lucifer, was born two years later, and by that time they were freely admitted into the Angelios' former position of glory.  They had regained all the wealth that had been gambled away by Eve’s grandfather, and those former friends became friends anew, smiling graciously and commenting how miraculous their meteoric rise to wealth and power was.

It wasn't miraculous, some whispered when Eve and Joshua's backs were turned.  It wasn't miraculous how quickly their empire had grown, how many risks they took that somehow always paid off, how easily they had done it all.  It wasn't miraculous: it was impossible, uncanny, unnatural.

Not that anyone was implying anything, of course, not at all.  The use of Melancholia was illegal, after all, and no one wanted to suggest that the Angelios family was involved in something so unseemly as Melancholia.

By the time Gabriel was born, the financial empire was double the size it once was, Eve and Joshua Angelios had twice been invited to the capital to visit the Queen, and the whispers were getting louder.  How _did_ a common shop owner and an inexperienced girl-who had spent more time in the lower classes than was healthy- become one of the most powerful families in the entire country?  What if they _were_ using Melancholia to bewitch and beguile anyone they encountered?  It wouldn't be the first time someone had secretly used Melancholia to serve their own interests- in fact, almost everyone in those civilized circles used Melancholia (and the strategic application of bribes to ensure that inspectors looked the other way) on a regular basis.  But there was a difference, they all reasoned amongst themselves, between using a small melancholia to catch someone's attention across a crowded room or to hide a stain on an evening gown, and using Melancholia to gather more power and wealth than one family ought to gain in so short a period.  It wasn't right to use Melancholia so brazenly and so liberally- they ought to be sent to the Institute, where the less wealthy and influential who were caught using Melancholia were sent.  Perhaps if they weren't careful, they might, and their empire would crumble.

But rumors and judgements aside, there was nothing anyone could do to act on these suspicions.  The Angelios family was too powerful for any reasonable inspector to confront with the kind of speculative evidence they used to arrest more common citizens.  If only an inspector could catch them in the act- but that was nearly impossible, for the Angelios family was as careful as they were clever.  So the wealthy and powerful families of New Paresia were forced to hide their suspicions behind polite smiles and closed doors, watching as the Angelios family continued to rise.

When Eve died giving birth to their fourth son, Castiel, Joshua passed on his responsibilities to his children and secluded himself from the world, leaving twenty-year-old Michael in charge of a vast empire.  The other families expressed their deepest condolences, their heartfelt concern at those boys without a mother, and with an absent father- and secretly, they all sighed in relief.  Michael was an intelligent young man, but he wasn't his father or his mother, and it was all he could do to maintain the family wealth as it was, let alone expand it.  The Angelios family retained its power, but didn't gain another inch; and soon questions and suspicions about them faded away.


	2. Turkish Coffee

The situation was, Castiel decided, completely ridiculous.

He trudged through the fine layer of snow on the ground, sticking his hands under his arms in a vain attempt to warm them.  He had been out here, wandering through narrow, twisting streets with no indication of where they led, feeling his extremities slowly becoming numb, for at least two hours.  Long enough that he was sorely tempted to use a Melancholia to at least bring back some of the feeling in his fingers and toes.  He wouldn't, of course- Michael had been clear before allowing Castiel to move to one of their townhouses from their country estate that things were different in the city, even a city so far away from the capital.  People regularly reported to inspectors if they saw anyone using Melancholia in public; and while bribes worked to keep the inspectors from examining their family too closely, Michael had warned that he couldn't do anything to help Castiel if he was caught in the act.

Not that Castiel needed the warning.  He'd learned when he was six years old and playing with the groundskeeper's son that most people didn't think of Melancholia as tools to use; most people would run away, or scream at you, or look at you with disgust and never speak to you again, if they saw you use one.  The risk of inspectors catching him was just another layer to the knowledge that was ingrained in him the same way it was ingrained in others that Melancholia were shameful, disgusting things- the knowledge that no one could know what the Angelios family did behind the closed doors of the estate, that they taught and trained themselves to use Melancholia, not just as innocent diversions but as powerful tools.  No one could know, because no one would understand.

None of that made it any less tempting now, when Castiel had been lost in the cold for hours, trying to find a place he was no longer convinced even existed.  He hadn't passed any shops or cafes where he could duck inside out of the cold since he left the townhouse- none that were open on a snowy Sunday afternoon, anyway- and he was tired and cold and lost and desperate for any kind of comfort.  A simple Melancholia, just to warm him up.  Or maybe one that could point him in the right direction.  It took years of training to be able to sense when someone was using a Melancholia; as long as it wasn't too flashy, nobody would suspect what he was doing.

He sighed and kept walking forward, no warmth and no direction.  For a brief second he wished he had taken Michael up on his offer to meet him at the townhouse and walk with him to the cafe.  This city was even more of a maze than the capital, if that was even possible, none of the streets marked with signs or streetlights, nothing indicating which direction he was even moving.  The cafe was supposedly only a ten minute walk from the townhouse; Michael could have gotten him there in five.  But that suggestion had been a test, just like going to their family's cafe itself was a test, and Castiel was determined to pass it.  If he had said yes to Michael, his older brother might have lost faith in him, might have decided not to trust Castiel to become part of the family business.  Castiel would be perfectly fine with continuing his education instead of filling the spot left by Gabriel; but he couldn't bear it if Michael no longer trusted him.

He turned a corner and relief hit him like a bludgeon to the stomach.  For once, the street was lit, populated, and best of all, marked as the very street he was looking for.  He hurried forward, glancing at the shops on his left- and there it was, a warm, inviting cafe like an oasis in a freezing desert.  The light pouring out from behind the closed shutters was, at that moment, Castiel’s idea of heaven.

Before he opened the door into the inviting heat, however, he paused, taking a deep breath to calm his sudden nerves.  Michael had warned him in his most recent letter that the manager of Paradiso Cafe was extremely dedicated to the idea of working your way through the world, rather than relying on privilege and money- which was exactly why Michael had hired him.  It meant, however, that Castiel couldn't expect to gain anything from throwing his mother's name around, and might in fact hurt his own cause in the attempt.

But, Castiel reminded himself, that didn't mean he had any reason to be nervous.  He could get the job on his own merits, rather than his family's prestige.  He could.  He pushed open the door and was greeted by a warm blast of air-

And the bright lights of a Melancholia.

He stared.  The entire room was filled with bright colors pulsing and twisting in time with the voice singing from the back room.  As Castiel watched, two curls of color, one blue and one green, began dancing around each other, faster and faster until they collided and burst apart in a shower of silver stars as the voice swelled into an off-key crescendo; the stars twinkled, then disappeared into another wave of color, another verse.  Along the edges of it all drifted shadows, tendrils of darkness that reached out to twine around spinning brightness; and even as the darkness roiled with sinister purpose, it only made the sparkling colors shine all the brighter.

The Melancholia was imprecise, untrained, even random; but even so, Castiel couldn't look away.  Nobody used Melancholia like this, especially not in his family, not with the threat of being caught looming over anyone who used one.  Nobody made something so frivolous as dancing colors- except for here, in this empty little cafe on a snowy evening.

It was the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen.

The voice suddenly got louder, closer.  Castiel jumped, knowing that this was not something he should be watching: Melancholia were, more than just illegal, intensely personal.  Watching someone create a Melancholia was like watching them reaching inside themselves and pulling out their soul, and any onlooker was an intruder, unwanted.  Perhaps that was why they were so unsettling, why they were illegal.  Nobody wanted to put their soul out on display for all to see.

Before Castiel could leave, pretend he was never there, never saw this Melancholia that was so beautiful, a man came out of the back room, hauling two bags of coffee and still singing enthusiastically.

He froze at the sight of Castiel standing hesitantly in the doorway.  For one long, shocked moment, they stared at each other with the whirls and waves of the Melancholia hung between them like a shimmering, translucent veil.

Perhaps it was the light from the Melancholia, but in that moment it seemed like the man's eyes glowed like emeralds- like the sweep of green light cascading down a starlight spiral in the depths of the Melancholia.  And for that moment, Castiel felt like he was staring all the way down into this man's soul through just his eyes, and drowning in it.

The moment broke as the man stammered a surprised, "Holy shit," and the Melancholia began to collapse in on itself, no longer maintained by the man's attention.

Castiel saw the gorgeous swoops and arches begin to crumble, and felt the loss sinking though his bones.  Instinctively, he hummed the last line of the song the other man had begun, and reached inside himself to find a Melancholia of his own.  He wove the colors back together, breathed life back into them just briefly, so that they wouldn't just hang empty in the air until they dissolved, so that they could finish their dance and find the resolution such a magnificent display deserved.

The colors hung still once again, this time not cut short as they had been before, but subsiding, tapering like instruments echoing through a silent music hall.  As they should.

Castiel looked back at the man to find him still staring at him, his mouth hanging open in shock.  He gave the man a hesitant smile, something to put him at ease- even though Castiel was well aware that with what had just happened, the man had every right to be ill at ease.

The man opened his mouth, reconsidered what he was going to say, then made an obvious decision to ignore everything that had just happened.  He switched on a polite smile with professional ease.  "Hey," he said, a little too casual.  "What can I get for you?"

Castiel hesitated, then made his way through the cafe.  It was a very modern set up, with formality exchanged for comfort and ease, allowing for a counter which stood between the rest of the room from the area where the drinks were prepared.  Castiel settled on one of the stools, perching a little awkwardly.  The man- probably not the manager, based on Michael's description- leaned on the counter, not quite meeting Castiel's eyes, but still managing an air of unobtrusive interest.

"I'll take a cappuccino, please," Castiel said, realizing only after the words had left his mouth that they weren't the words he had planned.   _Might I inquire after a job here?_ was what he had meant to say; _Your Melancholia was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,_ was what he'd wanted to say.

The man nodded.  "Coming right up," he said with a quick smile, and Castiel found himself amending his earlier thought.  The Melancholia was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and this man was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.  He moved like a large cat, a tiger or a panther, graceful and dangerous, muscles rippling even under the layers of his clothing.  Everything about him was perfectly proportioned, except for the little self-deprecating quirk of his full lips that Castiel might not have noticed if his attention hadn't been so fully captured.  And his eyes... the illusion that they were glowing had faded with the rest of the Melancholia, but the bright green was entrancing nonetheless, drawing Castiel in just as surely as they had before.  He found himself wanting to look deeper into them, to see if he could find that spark that he'd seen before, the ember glowing in the depths of this man's soul.

The man looked up from where he was preparing Castiel's coffee, and Castiel jerked his gaze away.  Gabriel used to tease Castiel that someday he'd bore a hole in someone's head with an unintentional Melancholia if he kept staring like that.  Even after Gabriel had cut off contact with the family completely, Castiel could still hear his slightly mocking laughter in his head every time he got too caught up in watching someone else.  Especially now, when Gabriel would have laughed twice as hard at finding Castiel so enraptured by a beautiful stranger.

Instead of staring at the man making his cappuccino and who had made such an enchanting Melancholia, Castiel turned his gaze to the rest of the cafe.  Now that he wasn't distracted by the bright, swirling colors, he could give the cafe itself more attention; and what he saw surprised him.

Knowing Michael and the legacy of their mother and father, Castiel had expected that Cafe Paradiso, their father's first business upon which all of his subsequent wealth was built, to be elegant but efficient, impersonal and aloof.  Instead, the cafe was... comfortable.  None of the furniture seemed to match, as if each couch, chair, and table had been bought from a different store- but somehow, there was a kind of harmony created by the casual arrangement of furniture, a harmony that was also connected the fireplace in the wall and the bookshelves filled with tattered, well-loved books.  It was the same sort of comforting ambiance that Castiel had only felt once, at the home of his father's parents, who had refused his father's money in favor of remaining with their common but warm tranquility.  Even the wood paneled walls, the mismatched art from local artists, the long counter that allowed customers to interact directly with their server, all contributed the odd familiarity that seeped into Castiel's bones and made him feel almost as if he was wrapped in his grandmother's arms again.

Or maybe after spending so long in the cold, the warmth was just going to Castiel's head.

"Here you are, one cappuccino," the man said, drawing his attention back toward the counter.  Castiel took the mug the other man passed toward him, noting that the dishes were even more poorly matched than the furniture was.  He was beginning to think that Michael had never even been in here, because he was sure that if he had, Michael would have gone into a frenzy over the lack of respectability.

The man turned away as he picked up the mug, but turned back almost immediately, before Castiel even had a chance to taste it.

"I don't do that kind of thing," he said abruptly.  "You know... Melancholia.  Not usually.  I'm not some kind of... some kind of..."

"Criminal?" Castiel suggested, and took a sip of his coffee.  It was good- better, in fact, than anything he'd ever had outside his own home.

The man flinched as if he'd said a foul word.  "Right," he said, sounding insecure about it.  "Exactly."

Castiel drank more of his cappuccino.  "I never said you were," he pointed out.  "And I'm hardly going to report you to an inspector when I'm guilty of the exact same crime."

The man shrugged.  "That just means that you're a criminal too," he said.  "And who knows, maybe you're insane enough to turn yourself in along with me."  Despite his light tone, there was real anxiety in his face, something hidden in the corners of his eyes, like the darks shadows that had shifted on the edges of his Melancholia.

"Have you met many people who would do that?" Castiel asked, frowning.  Surely most people had a stronger sense of self-preservation than that.  Stories of the Institute were widespread and terrifying; Castiel remembered Gabriel telling them to him when they were young in order to scare him into obedience.  It worked: Castiel had nightmares about the Institute until he was far too old to be paralyzed by childhood fears.

A tiny smile flitted across the man's face, easing some of the anxiety.  It made the green in his eyes stand out even more, framed by the lines around them.  "You'd be surprised what people do in the name of civic duty," he said, a little hesitantly.  "Since Melancholia are so disgraceful and all that."

"I've never understood that attitude," Castiel said thoughtfully.  "Nor the censorious and frankly unnecessary laws that stem from it.  If a tool is useful, we ought to use it, not fear it."

At that, the man outright grinned.  "Are you always so blunt with perfect strangers?" he asked.  "And if you are, how many times have you had to make daring getaways from inspectors?"

"Never, as of today," Castiel said seriously.  "And unless you happen to be an undercover inspector, I doubt it will ever happen."

The man's grin widened.  "Well, maybe I am an undercover inspector," he said, amusement coloring his tone, "and this is all just a very, very clever ruse to get you to incriminate yourself."

Castiel frowned again, tilting his head.  "That doesn't seem very clever to me," he said, considering the possibility.  "Especially since you just told me about it."

"That's the beauty in it," the man insisted.  "Tell you the truth and convince you that it's a lie." He'd relaxed completely by now, leaning forward on the counter and watching Castiel with those bright green eyes.  The graceful lines of his body somehow called to mind the swirls of his Melancholia.

"That doesn't make sense," Castiel told him.  "Because you told me about it, I'm now aware of the possibility, and am now on my guard against it.  Even though it's unlikely and illogical," he added.

The man laughed.  "Holy shit, are you always so serious?" he asked incredulously; but his laughter wasn't cruel, merely amused.  It made the cafe seem just a little bit brighter.  He contemplated something for a moment, then held out his hand.  "Dean Winchester," he said.

"Castiel Novak," Castiel said, using his legal name rather than the one that would immediately grant him a job anywhere else, and apparently would do the opposite for him here.  He shook Dean's hand and returned his smile.  For some reason, he had to force himself to let go.

"So, Castiel," Dean said, trying out the word on his tongue, tasting it as if he could learn everything about him just by saying his name.  "Why haven't I seen you here before?  Most of our customers are regulars."

Castiel shrugged.  "Just moved here," he said.

"And you just randomly came in here?  I'm touched," Dean said.  "Liking the city so far?"

"Not particularly," Castiel answered honestly.  Abruptly, he remembered his cappuccino, and took a sip.  Dean's bright eyes and charming demeanor had distracted him from his warming drink- not that he really minded all that much.

Dean glanced out the window, at the snow was blowing past in earnest.  "Not a fan of freezing your ass off then," he said.

"Especially not while wandering around the city for two hours," Castiel muttered, glaring at the weather.  It never snowed at the estate; the worst they ever had was some hail, some puddles frozen overnight.

The other man whistled in sympathy.  "Two hours?  Why are you even still in town?  If I had just moved here and had to do that, I would have turned right around and gotten the hell out of dodge."

Castiel sighed.  "I don't really have the option to... 'get the hell out of dodge,'" he said, trying out the phrase.  He'd never heard it before; he wondered if it was something that was said often in lower classes, or if he had been more sheltered than he'd thought in the country- or if maybe Dean was just strange.  Perhaps it was all three.  "I promised my family," he added when Dean raised his eyebrows in a questioning look.

"Ah," Dean said, his expression clearing.  "Family.  I understand that."  The wry look on his face said that he understood it even better than he let on.

Family.  Castiel blinked, suddenly remembering why he was here.  He wasn't supposed to be making conversation; he was supposed to be getting a job.  It was odd that he'd forgotten, but Dean was so... entrancing, that Castiel had to fight to pull himself away from his glow.

"Right," Castiel said, his forgotten nerves fluttering in his stomach once again.  He swallowed them down.  He could do this.  "Um.  Since I'm new in town, I was wondering..."

Dean leaned forward a bit more when the words got stuck in Castiel's throat.  "Yeah?" he prompted, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth and in the sparkle in his eyes.

Castiel took a deep breath.  "Is the cafe hiring?"

Dean blinked in surprise.  Whatever he'd been expecting Castiel to say, it obviously wasn't that.  "...What?" he said after a moment, still processing the unexpected turn of the conversation.

"I need a job," Castiel explained.  "Specifically, I need a job here.  Are there any openings?"

"Uh," Dean said still looking taken aback- and possibly just a bit disappointed, though what he was disappointed about Castiel couldn't guess.  "Yeah, um...  You're a little... well-to-do for a cafe though, aren't you?"  He gestured at Castiel's clothes, the tailored suit and overcoat that were out of place amongst the shabby but comfortable surroundings.

Castiel flushed and fiddled with the lapels of his coat.  "I have experience," he hedged.  He didn't mention that his experience was mostly gained at full family dinners, where he preferred to help Inias and Samandriel in the kitchen rather than find himself in the middle of a fight between Michael and Lucifer.

"Right," Dean said.  He stood up straight, regaining the professional air that he'd dropped sometime through the course of the conversation, a little bit of the shine disappearing from his eyes.  "Well, we could use another pair of hands, and maybe then Sam will get off my back," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with one hand.  He looked at Castiel critically.  "What kind of experience do you have?"

"Catering for the most part," Castiel said, hoping the half-lie came out smoothly.  It certainly felt like a formal event gone horribly wrong once Michael and Lucifer really began fighting, and Inias had taught him a lot over the many years he'd spent lurking in the kitchen.  But he wasn't very good at outright lying: often he couldn't think quickly or convincingly enough to fool anyone.  He preferred lies by omission, but there was only so much he could do to dance around who he really was.  He had to, though.  Michael had been very clear.  "I can cook, bake, and make a wide variety of drinks.  Anything on your menu, I'm fairly sure."

Dean looked at the menu, then back at Castiel with a skeptical expression.  "Really," he said.  "Anything on the menu."

"That's what I said."

Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully, then nodded.  "Alright then, Cas," he said, stepping out from behind the counter that divided them.  "Prove it."

Castiel blinked, first at the nickname- there were only two people who ever called him that, and they were his brother and a childhood friend, never strangers- then at the challenge.  "Prove it," he repeated.

Dean's smile was cocky.  "That's what I said," he told him, mimicking the growl of Castiel's voice teasingly.  "Make me a turkish coffee, sweet, with the french roast.  Oh, and if you break anything, you're paying for it."

Castiel narrowed his eyes.  "That's not even on the menu," he said.

"Customer's prerogative," Dean said nonchalantly.  "I'm always right- that's rule number one."

"You're always right, or the customer is always right?"

Dean grinned.  "Both.  Now go impress me."

Castiel hesitantly walked behind the counter.  The area was set up like a miniature kitchen that focused exclusively on coffee.  Glancing back, he could see that there was a larger kitchen area behind the door for preparing food.  He paused, not sure where to find any of the equipment he needed, not to mention the coffee itself.

"Cupboard above the sink," Dean supplied helpfully, and Castiel opened it gratefully.

After rummaging around, and a few helpful hints from Dean, Castiel had gathered what he needed.  Dean watched him silently while he worked, surprising Castiel- turkish coffee was fairly complicated to make, and most people weren't comfortable remaining silent for so long.  Not that Castiel minded.  Even though this was technically a challenge, a test, there was an air of comfortable camaraderie gentling any tension that might have surfaced.  It was odd, Castiel mused as he brought his sugar, coffee, and water mixture to a boil for the second time, watching it closely to make sure it didn't cook for too long.  Michael was fond of giving him tests, to prove that Castiel was capable of keeping up with the rest of the family.  It was Michael's way of showing affection; yet for the most part, the tests made Castiel feel anxious rather than comforted.  Unlike this one, with Dean watching his every move as he attempted to prove himself.  He felt no anxiety here, merely confidence, and he wondered if it was because the stakes were slightly lower here- except that they weren't- or if perhaps Dean's presence was somehow gentler than his brother's- except that he barely even knew Dean.

He finished boiling the coffee for the third time, and began the process of pouring it into the cup slowly, lifting the pot as he went in order to produce as much foam as he could.  He finished it off with a flourish, showing off just a little- well, he was justified, as this _was_ a test whether it felt like one or not- and handed the cup to Dean.

Dean sipped it cautiously, and his eyebrows shot up.  Castiel forced down a smug smile as Dean took a much bigger and more enthusiastic gulp, most likely burning his mouth but obviously enjoying it nonetheless.

"Holy shit," Dean said.  "That's fucking delicious, and I don't even _like_ turkish coffee!"

"Why did you ask for it if you don't enjoy it?" Castiel asked.

"Because it's fucking difficult to make," Dean said, closing his eyes to savor the coffee.  "Apparently not for you though.  How the hell did you do that?"

Castiel shrugged.  "You were watching the whole time, you tell me," he said.

"Well, if I didn't know better I'd think you used a Melancholia to do that," Dean said, "because you've got one hell of a magic touch."

Castiel flushed, though thankfully Dean didn't seem to notice.  Of course, he _hadn't_ used a Melancholia to make the coffee, but he very well could have.  Most people could only use Melancholia to create illusions, like Dean's dancing lights, or make very small changes that weren't necessarily stable; but that was only because they were untrained.  Castiel, on the other hand, could do so much more that that; he might not be as adept as Michael, but he could certainly handle creating a cup of coffee.

Not that Dean needed to know any of that.

"I just made the drink," Castiel said modestly.

Dean shook his head.  "Yeah, but you did everything that I would have done, and the last time I tried to make turkish coffee it turned out like shit.  Shit with coffee grinds floating around in it."  He took another sip, making an expression of almost obscene pleasure from the taste.  Castiel swallowed in time with Dean, wondering when it got so hot in here.  Had he forgotten to turn the stove off?  "You're hired," Dean continued.  "Even if this is the only drink you can make, but especially if your magic touch extends to all areas."  He stopped, the tips of his ears turning red for some reason.  He coughed.  "Just uh, write down your information so I can have it on hand-"  He hurried past Castiel into the back room, and came out with a pen and paper to hand to Castiel.  "Name, address, hours you can work, all of that.  I'd start training you right now, but closing time was... ten minutes ago, and I have a giant-sized brother to feed.  Can you come in tomorrow around noon?"

Castiel agreed, handing Dean the paper with his information.  They both paused as the paper passed from Castiel's hands to Dean's, the hour of the night weighing on both of them, yet neither of them willing to break under it.  Their eyes lingered on each other's faces; Castiel felt compelled to memorize Dean's features, as though it would be the last time he would see him- which was ridiculous, of course.  He was coming back tomorrow.  Surely he wouldn't forget what Dean looked like in that short space of time.

He forced himself to hold out his hand.  "Thank you," he said earnestly as Dean took it.  "For everything."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice a little smaller than it had been just a few seconds ago.  "No problem."

They held on to each other's hands for a few seconds longer than perhaps they should; when they finally let go, Castiel's hand tingled with the loss.

"Goodbye," he said, and went back out into the cold.

He held the memory of the cafe's warmth- Dean's warmth- with him as he walked, shielding himself from the wind tugging at his clothing.  Looking around, he found that he could see the clock tower near his townhouse- in the opposite direction that he had come from.  He must have walked all the way around the city in order to have avoided the cafe for two full hours.

Michael surprised him at the corner of the street as he walked in the opposite direction.  "Castiel," he said, his tone as calm and even as it ever was.  "I was just at your house.  I had thought you would be there."

"I'm sorry if I worried you," Castiel said.  "I was just interviewing at the cafe."

Michael raised his eyebrows and fell in step with him, walking Castiel back to the townhouse.  "Got lost, did you?  How did it go?"

"I got the job," Castiel said, trying to keep the warm bubble of happiness from bleeding into his voice.  Michael wouldn't care to hear about Castiel's bonding experience with the common manager of their family's cafe.

Michael looked impressed, and Castiel's bubble of happiness grew even bigger.  How strange to think that he'd spent most of the day in a foul mood, wandering in the cold.  He barely felt the biting wind now, with the memory of Dean's smile and Melancholia, and the miracle of Michael's pride.

"Good," Michael said.  The praise would seem cold to anyone not acquainted with Michael, but to Castiel it was the highest compliment.  "Zachariah is a difficult man to impress, you must have done very well."

Castiel slowed in his tracks.  "Zachariah?" he asked, frowning in confusion as they crossed the street.

"The manager.  He didn't give you much trouble, did he?"

He stopped walking, his eyes fixed on the light spilling out of a window a little ways away.  "No... he..." Castiel said, without knowing what he was saying.  The light illuminated a sign creaking in the wind, a familiar symbol he'd seen his entire life on envelope seals and stamped on papers, a familiar name that had been a part of his life ever since Michael sat him down and explained their family history.

"Castiel?" Michael asked.  "Is something wrong?"

He didn't really hear him.  He closed his eyes, hoping against all logic that they had somehow failed him, that he hadn't seen that particular sign in front of this particular building instead of the one he'd just been inside.  He desperately tried to remember if his new workplace had a sign or a name- but if there was one, he hadn't seen it, too intent on getting out of the cold.  That cold wrapped securely around him now as he opened his eyes and stared up at the sign for Paradiso Cafe.  His father's old coffee shop that had been the first step to the wealth they now enjoyed.  The place Castiel had meant to reach earlier this afternoon.

"Michael," Castiel asked, his voice surprisingly calm and distant, "there wouldn't happen to be two cafes on Madison Avenue, would there?"


	3. Feud

"So let me get this straight," Lucifer said, smiling.  He hadn't stopped smiling since Castiel had explained what happened; and Castiel had learned years ago that Lucifer's smile hid schemes and plots that would destroy at least half a dozen lives in their wake.  "You got lost, wandered into the first cafe that you found, and flirted your way into a job at Impala Cafe, which just so happens to be a business rival of the cafe we _actually_ own."

"I didn't _flirt_ my way into a job," Castiel said weakly, his head cradled in his hands.  This was supposed to be a quiet family dinner at the townhouse that Michael had claimed as his own.  Well, as quiet as family dinners ever were, which meant at least one shouting match between Michael and Lucifer, especially now that Gabriel wasn't around to mediate.  But tonight, Michael and Lucifer had barely acknowledged each other, instead focusing all their attention on Castiel and his horrendous mistake.  Lucifer seemed to be enjoying the situation immensely; Michael had yet to say a word.

"How else did you charm Dean Winchester into hiring you right off the bat?" Lucifer asked amicably.

Castiel closed his eyes, refusing to engage Lucifer in what would ultimately become an argument, one that Castiel would most certainly lose.  Lucifer was the master of half-truths and twisted arguments; even knowing that he hadn't charmed Dean into doing anything, Castiel still wouldn't be able to withstand the onslaught of Lucifer's persuasion.

"Michael, I'm sorry," he said instead, not even able to look at his oldest brother.  How had he managed to make such a huge mistake?  Michael would never trust him again.  He might not be cast out of the family the way Gabriel had been, but there were other ways for Michael to show his displeasure, none of them pleasant.  "I was in a hurry and didn't pay as much attention as I should have."

"Is that so?" Michael said flatly.  It was the first time he'd spoken in half an hour.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said again, uselessly, pathetically.  "I'll talk to Dean tomorrow and inform him that I won't be working there, and then I'll interview at Paradiso as I was meant to."  Useless, pathetic, and desperate, and Michael would be able to hear all that in his voice.  He'd failed Michael's test so miserably that he didn’t know how he would even begin to fix it.

Michael was silent for a moment.  "And you think that will be enough?" he asked finally.  An honest question, without the accusation or condemnation Castiel expected.  He heard them anyway.

"I-" Castiel began.

"Hold on," Lucifer interrupted.  "There might be a better solution to Castiel's little quandary."

Castiel looked up, staring at his brother.  Was Lucifer actually trying to _help_ him?  Maybe Lucifer's minor feud with Michael was enough to help him overcome his dislike of helping others.  Maybe for once, Lucifer was selfish enough to be selfless.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, frowning.

Lucifer lounged back in his chair, looking like a dangerous jungle cat waiting for its prey.  Castiel's heart sank again before he even opened his mouth.  His plan wouldn't help Castiel; it would only help Lucifer himself.  "I mean that it appears we have a unique opportunity on our hands," Lucifer told Michael.  He glanced at Castiel.  "You see, brother, Impala Cafe has been a bit of a thorn in our side ever since it opened three years ago.  Nothing threatening to us, of course, but irritating all the same.  But with you working there, we would have a man on the inside.  We could win the feud."

There was a moment of silence.

"What?" Castiel said, gaping at him.

Lucifer shrugged.  "You would be in a prime position to give us information about their inner workings.  We've all of us been banned from the premises ever since Gabriel-" a sad disappointment passed over his face at the name- "began this silly prank war.  You could help us tip the scale in our favor."

"You want me to... to _sabotage_ them?"  Fleetingly, the memory of the warm comfort that had wrapped itself around Castiel in Impala Cafe passed through his mind.  And Lucifer wanted him to destroy that.

"Don't be so dramatic," Lucifer said, waving a hand dismissively.  "No one is telling you sabotage anyone.  All you would have to do is gather a bit of information, nothing too damaging.  It's just a harmless prank war, after all, just a little healthy rivalry."

Castiel stopped himself from asking what was harmless or healthy about spying on a business rival- not _even_ a business rival, because the Angelios family fortune was in no way threatened by one small cafe.  A _personal_ rivalry, a vendetta against a cafe that dared to do business across the street from their treasured heirloom of a shop.  But he couldn't say that to Lucifer: no matter how much high ground he began with, Lucifer would always beat him.  Instead, he turned to Michael.  "You can't possibly expect me to do this, Michael," he said, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice.  "I'm supposed to be gaining valuable experiences before I join the family business, not spying on the neighbors."

"And who's to say that spying on the neighbors isn't a valuable experience?" Lucifer murmured.  Castiel ignored him, watching Michael intently.  Michael was a good man, a good brother.  He took care of this family; he didn't force them into dishonest work.

Michael looked thoughtful, and for a moment, Castiel was hopeful.  Everything else aside, Michael had larger concerns that petty rivalries.  He'd snuff out any plots Lucifer had formed just as he always did.

Slowly, Michael nodded.  "Do it, Castiel," he said, and Castiel felt his hopes plummet.  "There's no reason that you can't discover more about our family's roots while working at Impala Cafe.  The important part is that you learn about the environment we came from, before the Angelios name meant anything, not what the specific cafe is like.  And this way, we might actually have something to gain from it."

"Michael-" Castiel began, but Michael cut him off with a look.

"When I told you that I wanted you to fill Gabriel's position in the family, the condition was that you do as you're told without question," he said.  "Do you want to be a part of this family or not?"

Castiel hesitated.  It seemed wrong, cruel even, to spy on someone, especially for reasons so petty.  But Michael was the one who knew what he was doing, the one who knew Dean Winchester and Impala Cafe, the one who was in charge of this family.  Like it or not, Castiel had to trust that Michael was only doing what was best for all of them.

"Yes, Michael," he said finally.

***

"Sammy!" Dean shouted as he came through the front door.  "Food!  Get your ass over here!"  He kicked the door shut and tossed the leftover quiche on the table.  One of the many benefits of owning a cafe: all of the food that didn't sell that day was his to take home.

"Coming," Sam called from his room, a little louder than necessary in their tiny apartment.  The upstairs neighbors had probably been stomping around again today; Sam was always extra noisy when they did that, in some passive-aggressive form of retaliation.

"How's the research coming?" Dean asked as Sam came out of his room, toweling off his excessively long hair.

Sam made a face and tossed the towel on the sofa.  Dean glared at it, and Sam rolled his eyes before pointedly picking it up and throwing it into his room instead.  "Horribly," Sam answered.  "They closed the library early, so I didn't have enough time to get everything done that I wanted.  This paper is going to kill me."

"That's what you get for studying law," Dean said cheerfully.  "It doesn't make sense to go to more school after more school after even more school."

"So I should have left early the way you did?" Sam asked wryly.

Dean pointed at him with his fork.  "Hey, I came out great," he said through his mouthful of lukewarm quiche.  "I don't see _you_ running your own business, Mr. Big-shot Law Student."  Not that he would ever let Sam leave school the way he had.  The whole reason he'd left had been so that he could afford to send Sam to school once their father died.  Dean would have given up his education a hundred times if it meant that Sam could go through school and become a lawyer.

Sam smiled and shook his head.  "Whatever you say, Dean," he said.  "You should remember that the next time you have an inspector breathing down your neck about some stray Melancholia, and you need my big-shot lawyer skills to get you out of trouble."

Dean took another bite nonchalantly, hoping he wasn't flushing.  It was hard not to think about the look on Cas' face as he stared up at the Melancholia that Dean had only been vaguely aware he was creating.  For a second, Dean had felt his entire life slipping away from him, caught in an inspector's hands, the cafe closed, Sam left alone to fend for himself while Dean rotted in the Institute.  But then Cas- this stranger walking in on something no one ever looked at with understanding- did the unthinkable, and _added_ to it.

Dean wondered if he would ever stop feeling like he'd been bludgeoned with kindness when it came to Cas.

Sam paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, looking at Dean curiously.  "Are you alright?" he asked.

Dean frowned.  "Of course I'm alright," he said.  "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," Sam said.  "You just... you're smiling."

"What, is that a crime now?" Dean asked, turning the corners of his mouth down.  There was no reason to smile like an idiot when he was thinking about Cas.  None at all.

Sam shrugged.  "It's just a little weird.  Did something happen at the cafe?"

"Um," Dean said, then cleared his throat.  "Yeah, actually.  I hired someone new."

Sam looked up at him, his fork dangling limply from his hand, shock written across his face.  "Wait, you did?"

"Yeah, well, you've been so annoying about it, how you're busy with school and I shouldn't try to pick up all your extra shifts myself, and since you hate Benny for whatever reason-"

"I don't _hate_ Benny, I just think he's... unreliable."

Dean snorted.  "Right.  And if you ever took a minute to actually talk to him, you'd find out that he's actually a damn decent person."

"Doesn't mean that he's reliable," Sam said, then stopped before the familiar argument could develop into anger and ultimatums.  "Look, I think it's great that you hired someone.  You were running yourself into the ground trying to handle all that work yourself."

"With Benny."

Sam rolled his eyes.  "With Benny, whatever.  You were stretched too thin, and I'm glad that you have someone to pick up the slack."

Dean frowned- he didn't need _Sam_ of all people to take care of him- but didn't try to argue the point.  "Good."

"A little confused, but glad," Sam continued.  "Since you've been resisting hiring anyone for months now, no matter how much I bother you about it, and then one day out of the blue you do it without any prompting whatsoever."

"I guess I was just getting tired of your nagging," Dean said lightly, lifting his beer to give him something to do.  He would really prefer it if Sam didn't find out the exact circumstances of how Dean had hired Cas; the nagging to hire someone would pale in comparison to the uproar if Sam found out about the Melancholia.

"Right," Sam said skeptically.  He sighed and leaned forward.  "You hired her just because you think she's attractive, didn't you."

Dean choked on his beer.  "What?" he coughed when he could breathe again.  "I didn't do that!"  He firmly banished the the thought that maybe it hadn't hurt that Cas was maybe the most attractive man he'd seen in his life.  It hadn't hurt, but he hadn't hired him _only_ because of that.

Sam's eyebrows climbed all the way up to his hairline.  "Wow, she's _that_ attractive?  Now I'm really excited to meet her.  What's her name?"

" _His_ name is Castiel Novak, and it's nothing like that," Dean snapped.  "He just seemed like a good fit, that's all.   _That's all_ , Sammy," he added when the skeptical look only intensified on Sam's face.  He rolled his eyes.  After Sam had caught him kissing Aaron Bass two years ago, it had been nice not to lie to his brother anymore- that is, until Sam's nagging and significant looks had increased twofold now that he knew that Dean's wandering eyes weren't limited to a single gender.

"Whatever you say, Dean," Sam said.  "But you do realize that by hiring someone you find attractive rather that just asking him out, you've set yourself up to have a really shitty time, don't you?"  And with that, he polished off his plate and wandered back into his room to work on his paper.

Dean stared at his food, trying not to think about what Sam had just said and failing miserably.  It had made perfect sense to hire Cas.  The man had made the best turkish coffee, maybe even the best _drink_ that Dean had ever tasted.  Not to mention the way he'd accepted the Melancholia as if he saw that sort of thing every day, as if he hadn't walked in on something taboo and illegal- as if it was something beautiful.

The fact that he looked like an angel yet had a voice _made_ for sex had nothing to do with anything.  Nor did that little quirk of his mouth that served as a smile, and the way he was a little bit strange and a little too serious but also a little bit funny, and the intensity in his eyes that Dean had felt in his bones- nothing to do with anything.  Nothing at all.  There was no reason any of that would interfere with work, because it was nothing like that.

"Son of a bitch," Dean groaned, and dropped his head into his hands.


	4. Impala and Paradiso

Castiel looked down at the order in his hand, and back up to stare incredulously at Dean flashing him two thumbs up.  The order was long, complicated, and almost illegible due to the number of corrections.  Dean had brought it back from the table crowded with teenagers, who he'd greeted all by name and had a short conversation with.  He really hadn't been exaggerating when he said that most of the people who came to this cafe were regulars- Dean seemed to know everyone who walked through the door, and greeted them all like they were his best friends.

"Need a hand?"

Castiel turned gratefully to Sam, Dean's younger brother.  "Yes, please," he said, handing him the slip of paper with the orders.  Ten of them, all at once, on Castiel's first day, an hour or so after he'd started working.  Sam had only just finished explaining how to use some of the equipment that Castiel was unfamiliar with, and Dean had immediately handed this insane order to him.  "Is Dean trying to haze me?"

"What?" Sam said, beginning on one of the orders and indicating that Castiel do the same.  "Oh, no.  Dean just likes to wait tables for a while while we slave away back here."  He grabbed a few cups from the cupboard above the sink, reaching the ones on the top shelf without even stretching.  He was one of the tallest men Castiel had ever seen; if Dean hadn't introduced him as "my baby brother," Castiel would have assumed he was the older sibling.  "He just likes the attention," Sam continued.  "He'll come back here when we need more pastries."

"Dean bakes?"

A small, wicked smile passed over Sam's face- undoubtedly, this was the focus of quite a bit of brotherly teasing.  "Oh yeah," Sam said.  "Baking, cooking, anything involving food that will give you a heart attack.  He's a real housewife about it, actually.  He probably would have made this place a bakery if I hadn't reminded him that I can't cook to save my life, and he couldn't possibly make everything himself.  Especially given how busy the cafe has turned out to be."  He set two of the drinks on the counter and got to work on the next few, while Castiel was still making the first.

"So it's always like this?" Castiel asked, looking around the bustling cafe with something akin to horror churning his stomach.  How had they managed to keep this place in business with only three people?

Sam laughed at the look on Castiel's face.  "Hey, relax," he said cheerfully.  "This is one of our peak hours.  People come in around breakfast and later in the afternoon, but the rest of the day is usually pretty quiet.  This is a little crazy, even for us."  The next two drinks joined the other two, and Castiel finally finished his first.  Castiel glanced over at Dean, who should have been coming over to fetch the finished drinks, only to find Dean leaning protectively on one of the girls' chairs, raising his eyebrows menacingly at the boy sitting next to her.

"Does _that_ happen often?" Castiel asked, jerking his head in Dean’s direction.

Sam glanced over and rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, Aiden has been crushing on Krissy over there, and thinks Dean is some kind of threat.  Which is funny, because I'm pretty sure Aiden should worry more about whether Krissy will kick his ass than anything Dean would do, but Dean likes helping the impression along anyway.  He's... protective like that."

Castiel glanced at Sam, the little frown creasing his forehead, and wondered how exactly Dean's protectiveness extended to his own family.  From the look on Sam's face, exasperated and fond and frustrated, Sam was speaking from years of experience.

Dean gave the boy a predatory grin, and the girl- Krissy- rolled her eyes and shoved Dean away from the table playfully.  Dean laughed and ruffled her hair, then wandered through the tables, stopping occasionally to talk to the patrons.  He seemed different than he had the other day, brighter, harder, more aggressive, as if he was wearing a kind of armor invisible to the casual observer.  Even watching carefully, Castiel could only barely glimpse the gentle and beautiful roots of the Melancholia that Dean had created, and could only guess that the darker shadows were still lurking beneath the surface.  It made Castiel feel odd, to think that perhaps he knew Dean better after a day and a half than these patrons who had known him for months, maybe years.

Castiel finally finished the drink and put it next to the others that Sam had already finished.  Dean came by with a smile and a wink towards the two of them, and whisked the drinks back to the table crowded with teenagers.  There was that odd feeling again, somewhere under Castiel's ribcage, like a trapped bird fluttering around and distracting him when he ought to be thinking of other things, like whether or not Sam had actually finished nine drinks in the time it took Castiel to make one, or what on earth Michael wanted him to report about this place.  Instead, he found himself focusing on the way the weak winter sunlight seemed to latch onto Dean, picking out the green in his eyes and the curl of his soul hidden under the armor of his smile.  The effect was almost mesmerizing.

"Hey, Cas!" Dean called suddenly.  Castiel jumped in a flash of embarrassment, realizing he'd been staring.  He glanced at Sam to see if he'd noticed- if he had, he was doing a good job of pretending that he hadn't- then walked over to join Dean at the register.

"You do know my name is Cas _tiel_ , right?" Castiel said dryly.  Dean hadn't called him by his real name since the first time he'd tasted it, and Castiel almost wished he would.  He didn't mind it when his cousin Anna or his old friend Balthazar called him Cas, but when Dean said it, the little bird trapped in Castiel's ribcage flapped its wings madly and made it hard for him to concentrate.

Dean smirked.  "Would you prefer Cassie instead of Cas?" he drawled.  "C'mere, the afternoon rush is dying down a bit, so I'm gonna teach you how to take down orders and use the cash register."

He maneuvered Castiel into position in front of the register, pointing out the different functions and how to use them.  Castiel did his best to pay attention, since this was one aspect of the job that his experience with his family hadn't prepared him for, but it was oddly difficult to focus on anything other than Dean's warm presence by his side.  Standing this close to him, Castiel could almost count all his freckles, if only Dean would stand still long enough.  It was frustrating how distracting Dean was, not least because Castiel had no idea _why_ \- especially when Dean was saying things like, "You won't be able to charm the register open like I can," and flashing a stupid, cocky grin at him.  If Dean was this irritating on a daily basis, then it was no wonder that Michael wanted to take him down a peg.

Before Castiel could do more than roll his eyes, they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat impatiently.  They both turned to find a customer waiting at the counter- but not just any customer, Castiel realized, his eyes flicking down the man's uniform in increasing panic.  The inspector had obviously been standing there for a while, and he looked angry.  Castiel swallowed: angry inspectors meant surprise investigations, rushed court proceedings, a quick ticket to the Institute.

Dean didn't seem to know any of this, judging by the cheeky smile he shot at the inspector.

The inspector huffed.  "New whipping boy?" he said, raising his eyebrows at Castiel.  "What did you have to bribe him to get him working in this shit hole?"

"He actually came pretty cheap," Dean said, his smile widening.  "Just an evening with your mother."

Castiel stared at him.  It was one thing to talk back to a group of teenages, even if they were customers.  It was another thing entirely to insult an _inspector_ \- especially given what Castiel had seen the very first time he'd walked into the cafe.  He doubted Dean had enough money to pay off an angry inspector intent on destroying him; and it didn't take much to land you in the Institute if you didn't have the money and the influence to get out of it.

To his surprise, the inspector only rolled his eyes.  "Well, as long as you don't fuck up my order again and try to blame it on him," he said.  "The guy has enough on his plate trying to deal with _you_ all day."

"Aw, Victor, don't be jealous just because he gets to spend so much time with me," Dean said easily.  "You'll always have a special place in my heart, you know that."  

"Well shucks, Dean, you've seen right through me," Victor said dryly.  He looked at Castiel, who was completely at a loss.  He'd never met an inspector willing to talk to him, let alone joke and tease with biting affection.  He wondered how Dean had managed to make a friend of someone who would terrify the average man.  Then again, Dean was not an average man.  That, at least, Castiel knew.  "Alright, blue-eyes, you ready for my order?" Victor asked, cutting through Castiel's thoughts.

Dean nudged Castiel with his elbow, indicating the pad of paper so that Castiel could take down the order.  Castiel took it and made a show of being ready to write it all down.

"I'd like a latte with an extra shot of espresso and one of those buttered croissants," Victor said, speaking slowly, and a little bit condescendingly considering Castiel was a grown man, not a child.  "I'll buy a suspended coffee, too."

Castiel paused in the act of writing it down.  "Suspended coffee?" he asked.

Dean coughed.  "Don't worry about it," he told him.  "Just charge him for a regular coffee, and make a note of it here."  He handed Castiel a separate notepad, where there was a column of other orders marked as "suspended"- four suspended coffees, a suspended slice of quiche, three suspended muffins.  Two of the coffees and one of the muffins was crossed out for no apparent reason.

Castiel added another suspended coffee to the list, bemusedly glancing at Dean and noticing that for some reason, the other man was blushing a little.

He finished ringing Victor up easily, earning himself his first tip, for which he earned a clap on the shoulder from Dean.  He took the order to start making it, but Victor didn't move from the counter, merely leaned forward to talk to Dean.

"Crowley is getting a little bit antsy," Victor said quietly, but not quietly enough that Castiel couldn't hear him.  Castiel slowed his movements, delaying making the order to hear what the inspector had to say.  This was the kind of thing that Michael would want to hear; he couldn't let himself forget why he was really here.

"What do you mean, _antsy_?" Dean asked.

"I mean that he knows that I like you, and he doesn't trust me to do my job right anymore," Victor snapped.  "He thinks I've gone soft, which just means that he doesn't like that I don't destroy people's lives without any provocation."  Victor paused.  "He's planning on inspecting you and your cafe himself, sometime in the next few months."

"What?" Dean said.  "That son of a bitch- I thought _you_ were going to do our inspection!"

"Did you hear the part where Crowley doesn't trust me?" Victor snapped.  "I'm just giving you fair warning, Winchester, because I know how much this place means to you.  If I find out anything else, I'll let you know, but you know there's nothing else I can do."

"Yeah," Dean said dazedly.  "Yeah, I know.  Thanks, Victor."

Victor knocked on the counter and went over to a table in the corner.  Dean stood at the register for a little while longer, then turned to his brother.  "Sam, I need to talk to you," he said, glancing at Castiel.  "Cas, can you take the register for a while?  Just do like I showed you."  He went into the back room without waiting for a response, Sam following after him with a worried frown.

Castiel looked after them, struck by the haunted look on Dean's face, as if the shadows swirling around the corners of his life had suddenly gotten darker.

***

"Hello?" Castiel said hesitantly, stepping over the threshold into Paradiso Cafe.  The cafe was just as polished and elegant as he had expected it to be, but the fire in the fireplace and the boiler in the corner didn't seem to be having an effect on the room.  Castiel shivered and pulled his coat closer.  "Hello?" he tried again.

"We're closed," someone called from behind the swinging doors that must lead to the kitchen.

Castiel swallowed and walked further inside the cafe.  "I'm looking for Zachariah, the manager?  My name is Castiel Angelios, my brother told me to report here."

There was a clatter from the kitchen, and then a man emerged, middle-aged and balding, impeccably dressed and haughty.  He looked Castiel over for a moment.  "So you're the one who didn't know how to read the sign above Impala Cafe," he sneered.

Castiel bristled.  The sign, which he _had_ noticed the second time he'd gone to Impala Cafe, was partially hidden by the bare branches of a tree, high above the door.  The darkness had obscured what parts of it weren't behind the tree; there was no way he would have seen it through the snow and the cold.

The man stepped forward, holding out his hand.  "I'm Zachariah," he said, shaking Castiel's more hesitantly outstretched hand.  "Michael told me about your... situation.  Anything you discover about Impala Cafe, Dean Winchester, or his brother, you'll report to me, understand?"

Anger stirred in Castiel's gut.  His family owned this cafe, could probably buy Zachariah out several times over, and yet this lowly _manager_ of the cafe was treating him as if he was an idiot that Zachariah had to look after.

He swallowed the anger.  This was for his family, he reminded himself.  "How often do you want me to report?" he asked.

"Twice a week should be sufficient," Zachariah said, waving a hand.  "Provided you give me enough information to work with.  If you don't- well, let's just say that your brother will hear about it."  He raised an eyebrow at Castiel.  "Do you have anything for me today?" he added.

Castiel looked at him, his elegant suit and elegant surroundings that seeped all the warmth out of the air and made the cafe cold and inhospitable.  He wondered if the cafe had always been like this, even when his father had managed it, or if all this was Michael and Zachariah's doing.

"There was-" Castiel began, then stopped.  He remembered Victor leaning over the counter to talk to Dean.  Michael would want to hear about that.  "Dean-"  He stopped again.

"Yes?" Zachariah said impatiently.

Castiel swallowed.  "I found out that Dean bakes all of the food himself," he said, surprising himself.  Michael would want to know about the inspector.  Why wasn't he reporting it?  "He takes a great deal of pride in it, I think.  He won't even let anyone else come close to the uncooked pastries, he's that protective."

Zachariah smiled, a small, predatory grin that made Castiel's hackles rise.  "Interesting," he murmured.  "Anything else?"

Castiel hesitated.  "No," he said.  "Not that I can think of."

Zachariah nodded.  "Then you're free to go.  I'll let Michael know what we've talked about."

Castiel nodded and left as quickly as he could without running, his skin crawling.  He wasn't sure why he hadn't told Zachariah about the inspector and his warning; but he did know that something about Zachariah made him feel like he was being coated in thick, black oil, ready to be burned at the first opportunity.

***

"What the fuck!" Dean shouted, throwing the cookie sheet onto the counter in frustration.  The metal clattered on the polished surface, dislodging the batch of scones he'd just taken out of the oven so that several landed on the floor.  He didn't move to pick them up, opting instead to kick one so that it hit Benny squarely in the shins as he sauntered in to investigate.

Benny frowned at the blackened scone now rocking gently on the ground by his foot.  "It's kind of you to offer, Dean, but I like my food a little bit more edible," he drawled.

"Well apparently, that's not in the cards right now," Dean said.  "Those fucking sons of bitches, what the hell did they do?"  He slammed his fist against the oven door, only earning himself a sharp pain and probably a bruise in the process.

"You think them Paradiso boys burnt your scones?" Benny asked skeptically.

"They did something," Dean said darkly.  Every single batch of pastries he'd put in the oven had burnt, no matter how long he put them in for.  This most recent tray of scones, currently scorched into scone-shaped rocks, had only been in the over for a single minute before he checked them to find that they were completely ruined.  Whatever was going on, it wasn't natural, and it definitely had something to do with those assholes across the street.

"Who did what?"

Dean spun around at the sound of Cas' voice, pretending his heart hadn't just skipped a little.  There was no reason why it should, anyway- it was Cas' shift, for God's sake.  No reason to get excited just because Cas was taking off his overcoat and looking around the room with those pensive blue eyes and a furrowed brow.

"Dean burnt his scones and he's blaming everyone but himself for it," Benny said before Dean could answer.

"The scones were in the oven for less than a minute," Dean snapped.  "Those Paradiso assholes did something, I'm telling you."  Benny rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively as he wandered out of the room.  Dean scowled at his retreating back; he apparently had the worst taste in friends.

"Paradiso?  The cafe across the street?" Cas asked, slow and careful, as if the words were tripping through a china shop and he was doing all he could to keep them from stumbling into the precarious shelves.  "Why would they sabotage your pastries?"

Dean sighed.  "A few years back, one of the Angelios brothers that owns the cafe- and half the country, but who's counting- decided he didn't like us.  Or maybe he liked us way too much and just didn't understand the line between friendly teasing and all-out war.  Anyway, he started pranking us, little things at first, like putting up signs to confuse customers, stuff like that.  So we started pranking them back, but it, um.  Escalated."  Cas raised his eyebrows at him, so he smiled sheepishly.  "Hey, someone bites me, I bite back," he said, and _wow_ he hadn't meant to say it like that, not with Cas looking so innocent and confused but still so damn fuckable.  Dammit.

Cas looked at the oven, frowning as if he was concentrating, or maybe listening.  To what, Dean had no idea, but he remained silent anyway.  Cas might be crazy- actually, that was pretty likely, given Dean's luck- or maybe there was something to listen _to_.

He almost said something when Cas bent over and held his hand over the front of the oven, and staring at it until Dean could swear he could see the holes Cas was boring into it with his eyes alone.  Before he could open his mouth, however, Cas straightened and turned to Dean with an accusatory expression.

"You’ve been using Melancholia for the pranks, haven't you," he said, a thundercloud of anger drenching him in shadow.

Dean swallowed, his heart pounding.  It was all he could do to keep from stepping back.  Cas' focus was intense when he was in a good mood; angry, it was downright terrifying.  "How did you-" he stammered.  Cas had finished his Melancholia the first time they met; he wouldn't turn Dean in, would he?

Cas tossed a careless hand in the direction of the oven.  "Because _they_ used a Melancholia to do this, and it seems to me like this has been going on for awhile," he said.  His voice was even and calm, but that only made him more intimidating.  "It's not a stretch to assume that you've been doing it too."

Dean opened his mouth to defend himself, deny, deny, deny, but all that came out was a small, "Sorry."  Cas was going to report him.  It didn't matter that he hadn't reported him the first time, apparently.  There was no other way this was going to end, Dean _knew_ it.  God, he was a fucking idiot.

" _Sorry_?  This is the most idiotic thing I've ever seen, and all you can say is _sorry?_ " Cas snapped.  Dean winced, waiting for the final blow, the one that would send him reeling to the Institute.  "You're risking everything you have just for a _prank war?_  Putting in resources and time into something that doesn't _matter_?  What about your customers, your shop, your _family_? You, you and Paradiso, you're all putting regular people in the middle of this feud, and there is _no way_ it will end well, you understand?"  Cas stopped, swallowing to reign in his anger.  There was a minute of silence, and Dean felt a flicker of hope.  Maybe Cas was disgusted or angry or whatever it was that he was feeling- but he hadn't said anything about reporting him.

It didn't change the fact that Cas probably hated him now, but still.  Silver lining and all that.

"Why are you doing this?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean looked away.  "Someone bites me, I bite them back," he said again.  "I couldn't let them walk all over me just because they can.  I do that, where does it stop?"

Cas didn't say anything, and Dean didn't look at him.  After a moment, he began picking up the blackened scones and tossing them in the garbage, then went into the front room to start waiting tables.  He would just have to manage without an oven today.  He could cope; he always did.


	5. Suspended Coffee

Castiel shouldn't have yelled at Dean; he wasn't even sure what exactly had come over him, except that discovering that Michael had used a Melancholia on the oven to make it malfunction had sparked something in his blood, making it boil into a fury.  Dean shouldn't have been on the receiving end of it, but he was.  Now Castiel just had to find a way to fix it.

Not that he had any idea how to do that.  The whole day, Dean acted like there was nothing wrong, smiling and joking- but every so often, his eyes would skitter away from Castiel's, or he'd flinch when Castiel spoke.  Castiel didn't know Dean well enough to know what to say, or even if he should.  Despite all the glimpses Dean had given him into his soul, he was still a mystery, as if the hints were only enough to tease, never to reveal.  All Castiel could do was watch and listen and wonder if Dean would ever give him the chance to fix it.

It wasn't until two days later that he got it.

"Rufus, how's it going?" Dean asked the homeless man who approached the counter with a disgruntled expression.

"How is it ever going," the man said, pulling his coat tighter around him.  As far as Castiel could tell, he came to the cafe every morning, grumbled at Dean for a while while getting his coffee, then stayed inside the warmth of the cafe until it was busy enough that people started shooting him looks.  There were several other homeless regulars, far more of them than Castiel would have expected; he had no idea what drew them to this place, especially since most of them looked at Dean's carefully cheerful demeanor with suspicion.  "You realize that I have to walk for an hour in the cold to get here?" Rufus continued.  "You try doing that every day, and then we'll talk about how it's going."

Dean raised his eyebrows.  "Well, would you rather _sleep_ out in the cold, instead of spending the night at the shelter?" he asked.  "C'mon, man, I'm just trying to be polite."

Castiel listened intently as he wiped down the back counter.  He didn't usually hear Dean's conversations with Rufus, or any of the homeless that wandered in, since they usually stuck to their corner tables as close to the fireplace as possible.  He couldn't imagine why Rufus would walk so far to come here- surely there were other cafes between here and the shelter where he slept.

"Screw being polite and get me a suspended coffee, will you?" Rufus snapped.

Castiel glanced over curiously.  He still didn't know what a suspended coffee was, even after a full week of working here.  He'd seen Dean writing orders on the list and crossing them off, but there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.

"I don't see any on the list," Dean said, consulting it.  "All we've got is a suspended pecan bar.  You want it?"

Rufus scoffed.  "Boy, you know that I can't eat nuts," he said.  "If you don't have anything, just say so, alright?"  He turned to leave.

"Wait," Dean said.  He darted to grab a mug and poured a cup of the not-quite-freshly brewed coffee.  He passed it to Rufus.  "I guess we did have a suspended coffee," he said, shrugging.

"I didn't ask for no charity," Rufus protested, trying to hand it back

"And a suspended coffee is what, hard earned wages?" Dean retorted.  "Just take your damn coffee, will you?"

Rufus glared at him, but relented.  He looked at his cup, then back up at Dean.  "Can I at least have some cream in this, or is shitty coffee my punishment for getting it for free?"

Dean rolled his eyes and took the coffee back.  "Cas?" he said, not quite meeting Castiel's eyes.  "Fill this kind gentleman's coffee with cream, won't you?"

Castiel nodded and took the coffee.  He glanced at Rufus, standing there with his coat pulled tight around him, his eyes gaunt and bones protruding just a little too much.  This man needed more than just a cup of coffee.

He turned hurriedly and made a show of trying to find the cream.  As he fumbled, he found that quiet place inside him where things could grow, that space somewhere deep in his soul both achingly familiar and terrifyingly mysterious.  He sank into it; and once he felt secure, he poured the cream into the coffee, and poured in a Melancholia from that deep, quiet place as well.

The whole process only took a few seconds longer than it took to fill the coffee with cream.  When he was done, he straightened and handed Rufus the Melancholia-enriched coffee with a smile.  Rufus merely grunted in return, took it, and headed back to his usual corner of the cafe without suspecting a thing.

"What the hell did you do?"

Dean, on the other hand, was another issue.

"Did you just put something in his coffee?" Dean snapped.

"Cream," Castiel said slowly.  "Like you asked me to."

Dean crossed his arms, examining Castiel up and down.  "Yeah, and what else?"

Castiel hesitated, but what the hell.  He already knew how often Dean used Melancholia; Dean could hardly report him for this.  He shrugged.  "I added a Melancholia to give the coffee some extra nutrition, and so that it will warm him up a little more."

Dean's mouth fell open.  He blinked several times, screwed up his face in several different expressions ranging from angry to shocked to impressed to- something else that was strained and odd that Castiel couldn't quite place.  "You... what?" he asked, now just flat out confused.

"It was relatively simple to do," Castiel said.  "He looked like he could use a hot meal, and since he obviously couldn't afford one, I gave it to him for free.  Isn't that what you were doing with the suspended coffee?"

"I- what?  It's not- How did you even do that?" Dean asked, as if he was caught in a sudden thunderstorm, expecting to be soaked yet his skin was still dry.

Castiel looked away, not entirely sure what to say here.  He couldn't exactly tell him about the Angelios family policy of teaching its children to use Melancholia in a much more functional way than merely creating light shows and illusions; he couldn't tell Dean about his family at all, lest Dean discover just who his family was.  "I practiced," he said carefully.  It wasn't even a lie.  "I'd always felt that there was more I could do with Melancholia, and as it turns out, I was right."

"I'll say," Dean said.  He seemed to be relaxing, deflating, all of the defensiveness he'd adopted in the past few days melting away from him, leaving behind the same sweet vulnerability he'd shown when Castiel first met him.  "That's amazing."

Castiel shrugged again.  "No more impressive than giving coffee away for free," he pointed out.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said, smiling sheepishly.  "About that.  Don't tell Sam I just gave that away for free, alright?  I'll never hear the end of it, otherwise."

"As long as you don't mention my addition," Castiel said, teasing a little.  He knew Dean wouldn't mention it, just like he would never tell anyone about the other Melancholia that Castiel had done in front of him.  Castiel didn't know Dean very well, but he'd seen enough to know that Dean didn't reveal anything that he didn't have to.  "So... 'suspended' means that someone pays for someone else's coffee?" he continued when Dean's smile widened.

"Sam came up with it," Dean said, looking proud.  "This way, we can help people who need it, and still turn a profit.  Win-win."  He hesitated.  "I was just giving stuff away for free," he confessed ruefully.  "Sam wasn't too thrilled when he found out.  He's too smart for his own good, sometimes.  Smarter than me, definitely."

Castiel frowned.  Dean didn't strike him as any less intelligent than his brother; it just manifested in different ways.  "He's at school now, isn't he?"

Dean nodded.  "Yeah, studying law.  He'll grow up to be a cold-hearted, blood-sucking lawyer some day.  Make ten times as much as me, too, without having to run his own shop."

"You seem to do a good job," Castiel pointed out, looking around the comfortable and warm cafe.  To his pleasure, Rufus had shed his baggy overcoat and was looking around the cafe with a much lighter expression.  The Melancholia had worked.

"It's enough.  I make enough to survive, and help get Sam through school."

"You're paying for his education?" Castiel asked, surprised.  It suddenly struck him that he knew next to nothing about the Winchesters as a family, not just Dean.  Judging by the way Dean talked, owning his own shop had been a step up the financial ladder for them; but surely a parent could have at least helped Sam through university, rather than placing the entirety of the burden on Dean.

"Yeah, well, no one else to do it," Dean said flippantly, though something not quite so casual flickered across his face.  "To tell the truth, it's easier now than it was a few years ago.  It's a lot harder to pay tuition while working three low-paying jobs and barely making enough for rent."  He looked down at the counter, tracing the design of the wood grain, then glanced at Castiel again.  He shifted uncomfortably.  "What?" he asked, suddenly defensive again.

Castiel blinked; he'd been staring again without even realizing it.  "It's nothing," he said.  "It's just that...  You are a remarkable person."

Dean looked even more uncomfortable.  "What, because I worked as a cafe grunt just like you?" he joked.

"You take care of your brother," Castiel said seriously.  "There aren't many people who would give up so much for their family, or who would give away free coffee to the homeless for no reason except that they wanted to help.  My brothers never-"  He stopped himself.  He couldn't talk about his family to Dean, as much as it felt nice just talking again, sharing bits and pieces of himself the same way that Dean was sharing bits and pieces of himself.  And besides, he had no right to complain about his family.  They had given him everything, Michael especially- after all, the only reason he was here was so that he could join them, with their blessing.  He had every reason to be grateful for that.

"You have brothers?" Dean asked, unfortunately latching on to the one thing that Castiel couldn't talk about.  He seemed desperate to escape the praise, uncomfortable with looking at the better aspects of himself that Castiel could see so clearly.

"Yes," Castiel said, a little shortly.

"How many?"

Castiel looked at the cafe to avoid looking at Dean.  "Three older brothers," he said despite himself.  Dammit.  Dean was just so inviting, he couldn't resist.  "They weren't as generous as you when I was growing up," he added impulsively, though he felt guilty as he said it.  They were doing their best, he reminded himself.  They cared for him in their own ways, and he shouldn't complain about it.

"What about your parents?" Dean asked, more quietly now.  His eyes widened as he realized what he'd said.  "I mean, if you don't want to talk about it-"

"It's alright," Castiel said, even though it wasn't.  He shouldn't be saying any of this.  "My mother died when I was a baby, and my father... hasn't exactly been around.  So I have my brothers."

"I know how that is," Dean said.  "My dad..."  He trailed off, conflicting emotions fighting for dominance on his face.  They passed quickly, leaving a smile that wouldn't have even seemed fake if Castiel hadn't been watching closely.  "Well, he did the best that he could.  He was a hero, actually.  He saved a lot of people's lives."

"Doing what?"

Dean didn't answer the question.  "He was a good man," he said instead, shrugging.

Castiel frowned.  Something in Dean's expression said differently, but he couldn't quite tell what it was.  "What happened to him?"

"It's a dangerous world out there," Dean said lightly.  "He died about five years ago."

"Oh," Castiel said.  "I'm sorry."

Dean shifted.  "Yeah, well," he murmured, picking at a stain on the counter.  "Thanks."

They stood in silence for a while.  Cas found himself wanting to offer something, some kind of gesture that would comfort more than empty words.  If they were anywhere else, somewhere private and secluded, he would have filled the air with a Melancholia, the kind that warmed the air with more than just heat, but with comfort as well; one that took the soothing and familiar feel of this cafe and wrapped it around Dean like a blanket.  But he couldn't, not with customers sitting nearby with potentially judgmental eyes, and inspectors who could come in at any moment.  The best he could do was reach out, as if a hand on the shoulder or the brush of fingers on his face could communicate everything Cas wanted to say, that Dean looked like he so desperately needed to hear but would never ask for.

Cas' hand was stretched halfway through the space between them, almost touching Dean's shoulder, when the bell on the door rang and another customer entered.

Castiel yanked his hand away, heart pounding, as Dean turned with a false smile to deal with the customer.  He got back to work as well, making the woman's spiced tea latte, the world still spinning around his head, making him dizzy and nauseous.

Later, as he walked back to the townhouse, he berated himself for not understanding sooner.  He never should have let Michael pressure him into doing this, not after the way he'd reacted to Dean that very first night.  It would have been better for everyone if he'd just walked into the right cafe in the first place, never meeting Dean, never working for him, never feeling his heart pound every time he saw Dean's smile, never feeling desperate for his approval, never wanting to step close to him, touch him, kiss him.

He swallowed.  Just an infatuation, he told himself.  Just an infatuation, because the Melancholia had been so beautiful- for God's sake, he didn't even _know_ Dean all that well.  Although he knew him better today than he had the day before, and the knowledge curled around him like a cat, warm and soft and sinking its claws into him painfully.

If Michael found out that he was so taken with Dean Winchester, their business rival, he wouldn't give Castiel any more chances; that would be it.  And if Michael ever found out about something _happening_ between Castiel and Dean-

But no, there wasn't any chance of that, at least.  Castiel had seen Dean flirting with enough women to assume that he wasn't and wouldn't ever be interested in Castiel.  And even though that thought made Castiel's heart sink a little, it was just as well.  Nothing could ever happen between them.  Castiel's infatuation would fade with time, and Castiel would be loyal to his family.  There was no other option.


	6. The Tactical Applications of Baby Powder

The days settled into a rhythm.  Castiel walked to work, ignoring the flutterings of mixed excitement and building guilt in his gut, and spent the day pretending that his skin wasn’t skittering with Dean's proximity almost every second he was there.  For his part, Dean smiled and teased as if he hadn't noticed anything, which was both gratifying and frustrating- if he hadn't noticed anything, surely he should stand a little bit further away, rather than accidentally brushing Castiel's arm, or smiling warmly at him to share some joke, or laughing when Castiel said something inadvertently funny.  It would be easier if Dean treated him more professionally, because then Castiel could do the same to Dean, instead of getting caught up in his light and warmth.

Sometimes when he reached the cafe, Zachariah or Michael had pulled some prank based on his information.  Those were the worst days, when thunder clouds loomed over the cafe, congregating mostly over Dean's head.  Sometimes the prank was intrusive and inconvenient enough that they had to open late, like the time they came inside only to find that the floor had inexplicably been coated with olive oil.  On days like that, Castiel kept his head down and avoided both Sam, who was liable to explode at anyone nearby, and Dean, who seethed with a quiet sort of anger that was even more frightening.  Especially because Castiel was the one who had given Zachariah and Michael the information they needed, had mentioned the crack in the wall where an enterprising person might be able to pour something, with a little help from a Melancholia.  He was the one to blame for the dark thunderclouds over the cafe, and he hated it.

Not that the prank war was one-sided.  Dean schemed almost constantly about how to get back at 'those Paradiso dicks,' as Dean called them.  He and Sam would plan pranks as if they were high-stakes heists, keeping completely silent about the plans even when Castiel caught them with large cans of paint, or a bucket that seemed to be entirely filled with toothpaste.  He heard about the pranks later, in triumphant, glowing tones from the Winchesters, in sharp, accusatory tones from Zachariah when he went to give his report, and in dark, furious tones from Lucifer when they had family dinners.

Giving his report to Zachariah was the worst part of his day.  Twice a week he shuffled down the street to the cafe that was supposed to be like a home to him, but felt more like a crypt.  Twice a week he went inside and gave Zachariah whatever information he could think of.  Castiel always felt like he was being smothered in there, looking at that smug smirk of Zachariah's and feeling out of place among the polished surfaces and carefully coordinated colors.

He told Zachariah anything that came to mind.  Most of it seemed useless, and never led to any pranks, but Zachariah listened intently all the same, that smirk getting wider with every word.  Castiel couldn't imagine what he wanted with the useless information that Sam had gotten good marks on a recent paper, or that two of the regular customers were at odds with one another and Dean had to broker a peace between them before they could begin to brawl in the middle of the crowded cafe.  But even without knowing why Zachariah would be interested, Castiel felt sick every time he gave him another nugget of information.  He was betraying the Winchester's trust, _Dean's_ trust every time he opened his mouth; and even the knowledge that he was doing his duty to his family didn't ease his guilt.

There was one thing that he never mentioned to Zachariah: the inspector's impending visit.  Victor still hadn't been able to give Dean a definite date yet, except that it was "soon," and it had all of them twitching every time the door to the cafe opened.  Castiel didn't know why he still hadn't mentioned it- it wasn't as if Zachariah would do anything _that_ extreme even if he had the information.  Yet everyday as Castiel breathed a sigh of relief and heavy guilt outside the back door to Cafe Paradiso, he realized that he hadn't said a word about it yet again.

It didn't matter, of course.  This was just a stupid prank war anyway, a rivalry that he would rather not have a part in escalating.  He didn't see the point in telling Zachariah about something so important for Impala Cafe and the Winchesters.  It was none of his business.

Whenever it occurred to him that maybe he was trying to protect Dean, he dismissed the thought.  He had his attraction to Dean under control; he had enough self-awareness and restraint to keep it from affecting his decisions.

That didn't mean he couldn't appreciate spending time with Dean when he had the chance.  Dean seemed to give the world around him a kind of buoyancy, something light and easy and refreshing, even when he was being frustrating and difficult.  It was muffled sometimes- a lot of the time- when Dean dealt with customers, or he’d closed himself off for some reason that Castiel couldn’t fathom.  But sometimes it shone through like sunlight through stained glass, dazzling Castiel and filling him with a wonderful sort of warmth.  It was magnetic, almost impossible to resist.  Cas often found himself drifting closer, trying to catch a taste of it, watch the sparkle in Dean's eyes, the smattering of freckles on his nose, the hidden, real smile he only brought out occasionally.  Sometimes the only thing that kept him from leaning in to catch those smiling lips with his own was a litany of things he meant to tell Zachariah in his next report.  Proof of his dedication to his family, not to a stupid little crush on the owner of a stupid little cafe.

He had it under control.  He could spend time with Dean and still be loyal to his family.  He was perfectly capable of managing it.  It was all under control.

***

Castiel locked the back door to the cafe, rattled it to make sure, and jumped when Dean leaned against the wall heavily.  "Dean, holy shit," he said.  Only a month spent working at the cafe, yet he could already hear the changes in his vocabulary, thanks to foul-mouthed Dean and his only slightly less foul-mouthed little brother.  "Don't _do_ that."

Dean grinned, meaning that Castiel's heart refused to settle into a normal rhythm from where it had soared in his surprise.  "Serves you right," Dean said.  "You've snuck up on me more times than I can count.  Last time you made me drop an entire bag of ground coffee."

"And then I cleaned it up," Cas pointed out.  He put the key to the cafe in his pocket to avoid staring at the way Dean was lounging against the wall like some sort of young god.  As usual, he found himself staring anyway.  Fate was particularly unkind to him, it seemed, to toss in his path someone so attractive and yet so out of reach.  "And it's not as if I set out to scare you.  It's your own fault for being unobservant."

"I am observant!" Dean protested.  "You just don't make any noise when you walk.  You're like a cat.  Or an assassin.  Or an assassin cat with permanent bed head."  His eyes flicked up to Castiel's hair and he smiled.

Cas ran his fingers through his messy hair self-consciously, which probably just made it worse.   _That_ was the sort of thing that most people used Melancholias for- if they did use them, that is- but Castiel had never gotten the hang of Melancholias created for his own benefit, not even after all his training.  He suspected that it came naturally to others to change their own image, since much of their time was spent on cultivating it; Cas had never cared one way or another what he looked like.  Except now, when Dean's smile was teasing and warm and all that Cas wanted was to impress him.

"What are you doing here?" Castiel asked, derailing his own train of thought.  Nothing good lay down that road.  "I thought you went home two hours ago."

"I did, and then I came back."  The smile looked slightly ominous now.  He leaned closer conspiratorially, though there was no one nearby to overhear him.  "I need a favor."

Cas raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?" he asked, carefully neutral despite the fluttering in his chest.  Dean smelled like baked goods and roasted coffee, like the cafe itself had seeped into every inch of him.

"Sam and I were supposed to pull a prank on those Paradiso dicks tonight, but then he had to bail so that he could work on yet another research paper instead.  Usually I would just wait another day, but-" Dean looked Cas up and down with an appraising expression- "with _you_ here..."

Castiel stared at him.  "You want me to help you pull a prank," he said flatly.

"You won't have to do much," Dean said, a pleading light filling his eyes.  "Just watch my back, make sure we don't run into any trouble, that kind of thing."

Castiel's heard instinctively clenched in pity at the pathetic look on his face, even though intellectually he knew that there was nothing for him _to_ pity.  He had every right to refuse Dean's request.  In fact, he _should_ refuse the request: it would be doubly wrong of him to help his brothers' business rival pull a prank on his brothers, especially when he was supposedly helping his brothers pull pranks on _Dean_.

"Please?" Dean asked, his eyes widening into the most ridiculous yet somehow compelling puppy dog expression Cas had ever seen.

Shit.

"What do you need me to do?" Cas asked resignedly.

Dean's face broke into a dazzling smile that only served to make Cas even more irritated with himself and his own reaction to it.  This whole situation was ridiculous.

"Help me carry this baby powder," Dean said.

***

The thing about baby powder, Dean explained as they made their way across the street, was that it was nearly impossible to clean up.  It was too fine for most brooms to catch it, and wet baby powder formed into a paste that was almost more difficult to get rid of.  They were going to spread it over as many surfaces as possible inside Paradiso Cafe, particularly work spaces, corners, and anywhere that would be difficult to get at.

The plan was, Castiel had to admit, rather brilliant.  Dean didn't know it, but he'd managed to stumble on one thing that would be difficult for Michael and Lucifer to deal with using a Melancholia- what was too fine for a broom would prove to be too fine to dispose of with other means as well, especially in large quantities.  Melancholia were useful, to be sure, especially if one knew how to use them, but they were also just a tool; it was just as impossible to make something vanish with a Melancholia as it was using sheer force of will.

They stopped at the back door to Paradiso Cafe, blocked by a locked door (and Castiel noted with dark humor that the layout of Paradiso was surprisingly similar to that of Impala, so that the two cafe's would have been identical if the owners hadn't been so utterly different from one another).

"So what's your plan for getting all this baby powder inside?" Cas asked.

Dean smiled, but it was guilty, furtive.  "Through the door," he said, pulling something out of his pocket.

Castiel stared at the unmistakable shape of lockpicks half-hidden in Dean's hand.  "That’s _illegal_ ," he hissed, following Dean right up to the back door.  He looked around, suddenly nervous that Zachariah- or worse, Michael- would catch them in the act.  He was fairly sure that his duties as a spy did _not_ extend to breaking and entering into the very cafe he was spying for.

"Keep a lookout, will you?" Dean asked, setting down his baby powder and getting to work on the lock.  "And relax, alright, they've broken into our place just as many times as we've broken into theirs.  Well, they did until we started deadbolting the cafe shut."

"How do you even know how to pick a lock?" Castiel asked.

Dean actually winked at him.  Cas told himself that the butterflies fluttering in his stomach had nothing to do with Dean; he was just nervous about breaking the law.  "What, can't a guy have secrets?" Dean said flirtatiously.  At least, Cas thought it was flirtatiously- it was hard to tell when his blood was rushing just from the possibility that Dean might flirt with him, even jokingly.

"Not when those secrets involve breaking the law," Cas pointed out, and Dean laughed.

"Breaking the law, like using a Melancholia to feed the homeless?" he asked.  "Face it, Cas, you're just as much a delinquent as I am, you just use your powers for good instead of evil."  He turned back to the lock, but stopped after a minute or two of fumbling.  "Fuck," he muttered.  "The thing won't budge."  He sighed and rubbed his face.  "They must have upgraded their locks since the last time."

_Bad idea,_ but Cas was already kneeling down next to Dean and reaching for the lock.  "May I?" he asked.  Dean frowned in confusion, but moved aside anyway.  Cas put his hand over the lock, closing his eyes to better find that deep calm place inside of himself from where Melancholias flowed.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

"I think they used a Melancholia to seal the locks," Cas said without opening his eyes.  "So I'm going to use a Melancholia to unseal them."

Without looking, he could tell Dean was staring at him.  " _Seriously_?" Dean said.  "How the hell do you even know they're used a Melancholia?  And how are you planning on using one to _pick a fucking lock?_ "

Cas glanced at him quickly before closing his eyes again.  "I told you- I've had a lot of practice with Melancholia," he said quietly.  "I learned how to sense them, and how to reverse them, as long as they're small.  I wouldn't have been able to dismantle _your_ Melancholia the first day I met you, but I can deal with something as simple as a lock."  He smiled.  "Studying Melancholias was a good diversion from studying for my classes."

If Dean said anything after that, Castiel couldn't hear him.  He was already diving into the lock, flowing inside it, feeling the nooks and crannies until he knew every inch of it intimately.  He brushed against several parts experimentally before finding the surge of resistance from the Melancholia- Michael's, from the feel of it.  Michael's Melancholias were always the most difficult to disable, so orderly and connected that there was hardly ever any weakness- but nothing in this world is perfect, and after a moment of intense concentration, Castiel found it.  A tiny hole in the otherwise airtight defense.  He swirled a small, thin Melancholia through the hole, and tugged until the whole thing unraveled.

He was rewarded by a click of the lock as he opened his eyes, and an impressed glare from Dean.

"That was amazing," Dean said, a touch of resentment overshadowed by the awe in his voice.  "You're gonna have to teach me some of your tricks."

Cas shrugged, doing his best not to preen at the praise.  Dean was crouched altogether too close to him; he felt like he was drowning in the green of his wide, earnest eyes.  He stood abruptly and opened the door.  "Well?" he said dryly.  "Are we going to trespass or not?"

Dean grinned and pushed past Cas to walk into the cafe.

As per Dean's instructions, Castiel spread the baby powder in a thick layer on the ground and the counters in the kitchen, while Dean did the main room.  He poured it into corners and in tight spaces- if he was going to do this, he might as well do it right.

"So what did you study?" Dean asked after a few minutes of silence.  Cas had already finished the much smaller space in the kitchen, and was helping Dean in the front room.

"Hm?" Cas said absently, most of his attention focused on pouring baby powder into the cracks between the cushions on the chairs.  With any luck, the power there would go unnoticed until someone sat there, and then a cloud of fine white dust would puff into the air.  It was rather gratifying to know that tomorrow, Zachariah would come inside only to face the long and arduous task of cleaning all of this.

"You said you would practice with Melancholia to distract you from studying," Dean said.  He looked around the room for inspiration on where to take his bag of powder next.  "What were you not studying?"

"Oh, um," Castiel said, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.  "Medicine."

Dean stopped in his tracks and stared at him in astonishment.  "Seriously?  What the hell are you doing working for me, then?"

Castiel looked away, tracing a design in the baby powder next to him.  "It's a long story," he said.

They stood in silence for a while, neither one of them moving or speaking.  Eventually, Dean shifted.  "Hey, give me a hand?" he said.  He grabbed a nearby chair and stood on it.

"What are you-" Cas began, then stopped as Dean began pouring baby powder on the blades of the ceiling fan.  He sighed.  "You want me to do the other one?" he asked in resignation.  Dean grinned at him as he climbed on another chair to decorate the second fan.  The instant someone turned them on, it would seem like it was snowing inside the cafe.  It seemed fitting, matching the frigid air that permeated the entire cafe no matter what the temperature was outside.

As they finished and left the building- Castiel pointedly _not_ locking the door behind them, as that would be akin to writing his name in big block letters all over it- Dean turned to Cas to say something; but as soon as he looked at him, he burst into laughter.

"What?" Cas asked.

"You've got-" another laugh- "you've got baby powder in your hair, oh my God," and to Castiel's surprise, Dean reached up and ruffled Cas' hair, dislodging the powder so that it fell like a white mist all around him.  Cas sneezed, which only served to make Dean laugh harder.

Cas frowned at him, but found himself smiling despite himself- Dean's laughter was infectious, seeping into his bones and making laughter bubble in his own chest.  It overflowed suddenly, a bottle of champagne bursting with a pop and a sparkle.  Soon both of them were doubled over in laughter, unable to stop.  Every time their eyes met, their hilarity intensified and wracked them like an unstoppable earthquake.

They were back at Impala Cafe by the time the laughter subsided- though it still bubbled up irregularly, barely swallowed before they were set off again.  Dean sighed and clapped Cas on the back, then slipped his arm around his shoulders.  "God, I haven't laughed that hard in years," Dean said, his grin splitting his face with happiness.

"I hadn't realized that baby powder was so funny," Cas said.  He felt warm, almost drunk on that figurative champagne, on the laughter fizzing in his veins and Dean's arm around his shoulders.

Dean shook his head.  "I had no idea either," he said.  "Maybe we should play with baby powder more often."  They started to walk again, with no particular destination, Dean's arm still draped over Cas like he'd forgotten it was there.  The street was quiet, dark, and cold, empty with the late hour, but inside their little bubble the world had exploded in light and color and warmth.  It didn't matter that it was the dead of winter when Cas could bask in the sunlight of Dean's smile.

"Hey, it's not too late," Dean said.  "You want to go grab a drink or something?"

"I'm opening tomorrow, remember?" Cas said.

Dean's smile turned sheepish.  "Oh, yeah," he said.  He paused thoughtfully.  "I could call Benny,  ask him to fill in for you."

"Dean," Cas said pointedly.

"Alright, alright," Dean said.  "I'll walk you home then."  His arm fell away from Cas' shoulders as if he'd only just remembered it was there.  Cas felt a few degrees colder in its absence, and he found himself wondering what would happen if he pulled it back, wrapped himself inside the circle of Dean's arms until the warmth seeped back into his bones.

"I don't need to be escorted home," he said, distracting himself from the thought.

Dean rolled his eyes.  "We're going in the same direction anyway," he said.  "I only live a few blocks away from you, you know."

Cas frowned.  "You do?"

Dean shrugged and didn't answer, just started walking.

They walked in silence for a little while.  Cas looked everywhere but where his eyes most wanted to go, focusing on the shops around them and the darkened windows of the apartments above them.  One of the shops had a 'For Rent' sign taped to the door; Castiel found his eyes lingering on it.  "How did you end up owning the cafe?" he asked Dean.  "You've never mentioned."  He didn't mention that he couldn't imagine how Dean went from whatever poverty-ridden background he'd come from, to being the owner of a successful shop.  His own father had done something similar- but it seemed different, somehow, to marry and cajole your way into wealth, than it was to earn your way into a decent living.

"Long story," Dean said quietly.

Castiel nodded and didn't press.  He hadn't shared his long story with Dean; Dean didn't have to share his.

The silence resumed, thicker and more stifling than before.  The laughter that had lingered around them in a cheerful cloud had dispersed, leaving nothing in its place.

"My dad," Dean said suddenly.  He cleared his throat, started again.  "The cafe used to belong to my dad, back before..."  He took a deep breath.  "Before my mom was murdered," he finished.

"She was killed?" Castiel asked, eyes widening.

"I was four years old," he said.  "She was an inspector, and she'd been investigating this gang that was using Melancholias all over the place, hurting people, blackmailing them, that kind of thing.  She arrested a lot of people, I guess.  Too many people.  Somebody got pissed, and set the house on fire.  I carried Sammy outside while my dad tried to grab our mom, but...  She didn't make it.  My dad gave up the cafe after that, handed it over to a family friend, and we just... left town."

"What did you do?"

Dean shrugged, looking at his feet.  Snow had started to fall, particles of ice melting on their skin.  "Dad started traveling, taking whatever jobs he could.  At first I think we just did that, went from town to town, but then...  He started looking for them.  The guys that killed mom.  Started working for a rival gang in exchange for information.  He never hurt anybody, though, just helped them get rid of the other gang.  Saved lives, actually.  'Cause the other gang, they were bad, no rules or structure.  At least Azazel's was...  Anyway."

"Did you ever find the men who killed your mom?"

"No, we never did."

They walked in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder in the drifting snow.

"By the time I was a teenager, I was helping my dad find mom's killers, taking care of Sammy, making sure we had food on the table.  I was supposed to keep going when he was gone, but when he died, I didn't...  I didn't have time to look for the killers.  I had to take on a bunch of jobs to support me and Sam, so we left the gang- well, it wasn't as simple as that, but anyway, we left and came back here, got in contact with Bobby and got the cafe back.  It was a mess when we got here, but Bobby helped us put it back together.  We're doing well enough now that I can send Sam through school, so that's all that matters."

Cas looked at him, his distant eyes and clenched jaw.  "Are you disappointed?" he asked.  "That you couldn't do what your father wanted?"

Dean chuckled humorlessly.  "Honestly?  I hate that I couldn't do it.  That I gave up on the search.  It was practically my dad's dying wish, and I still managed to disappoint him.  But... I'm a little relieved, too.  I never really..."  He cleared his throat.  "I like working at the cafe," he said quietly, like he was ashamed of it.  "The things I would have had to do... it's better this way.  It is."  He didn't sound very convinced.

They reached the front steps of Castiel's townhouse, but Cas didn't make a move to go inside, and Dean didn't leave either.  The silence hung thick in the air, not an uncomfortable silence anymore, but not a happy one either.  Dean looked years away, trapped in a time when his father was hell bent on vengeance and Dean was left looking after both his father and his younger brother.  Cas hesitated, knowing what he wanted to say, but not quite sure if he should.

"I was just finishing my degree when my older brother told me to come here," he said finally.  "He wanted me to help out with our family business.  So I finished up my degree and came here, only for my brother to explain that I needed work experience in order to do the job he'd set aside for me.  I... I didn't want to agree, but it's my family.  I can't say no to my family."  He met Dean's eyes and smiled sadly.  Dean would never know the half of what Cas had done for his family, the sacrifices he was making for a cause he was no longer certain was worth it.  "I think it's amazing, what you've done," he said.  "I know what kind of courage it takes to walk away from what everyone expects from you.  It's something I've never been able to do."

Dean's eyes widened, black in the shadows where the two of them stood hidden from the streetlight.  Hidden in the dark and the cold, away in the corner where no one could see them; safe.  Cas felt himself being drawn forward, the magnetic forces that seemed to draw him inexorably towards Dean pulling him harder than they ever did in the bright lights of the cafe.  He could feel Dean's puff of breath on his face, feel the warmth radiating off of Dean's body, feel rather than see the way Dean's gaze was skipping down his face to rest on his lips.  They were so close, and it would be nothing, nothing, nothing to just lean forward, close that extra distance, press his lips to Dean's-

His neighbor's front light flickered on, and Dean and Castiel jumped apart, as if they had been doing something furtive and shameful.  They hadn't been, of course, just standing, looking at each other- but Castiel looked away, breaking whatever moment they might have had.  Which was a good thing, he reminded himself, but it he felt a rush of emptiness where his pounding excitement had been, and the sting of loss.

"I should get inside," Castiel said.

"Right," Dean said.  Cas wondered if he was imagining the tone of disappointment in Dean's voice.  "Well, thanks for helping out tonight.  And for... thanks."

"Of course," Cas said, then cleared his throat.  "You're my boss, right?  I have to do what you tell me."

"Right," Dean said again, a little awkwardly.

Castiel took a deep breath.  "Goodnight."  He walked up the stairs and fished in his pocket for the keys, resisting the urge to turn around, follow Dean with his eyes, his whole body, catch up with him and wrap him in his arms until that persistent heartbeat whispering _do it, do it, do it_ , slipped into contented silence.

"Cas?" Dean said suddenly.  Cas turned, but Dean didn't say anything, just looked up at him and chewed on his lip.  "See you tomorrow," he said finally.  Cas was sure it wasn't what he'd meant to say.

"Dean?" Cas asked, but Dean was already gone, trudging through the snow, the footprints filling up until they'd disappeared entirely.

Castiel swallowed and went inside.


	7. A Lesson

Castiel could tell the instant Dean came into the cafe, felt the shiver go down his spine, the electricity in the air before Dean even made his presence known.  He wondered tiredly as he measured steamed milk into a mug if the knowledge was some kind of odd defense mechanism, or if he was really that pathetic.

His hands shook slightly as he passed the mug to Sam on the other side of the counter- although thankfully, Sam didn’t seem to notice.  An ordinary sleepless night would have made him tired, quiet; a night like last night, where he’d tossed and turned for hours without even being able to close his eyes without twin images of Dean’s bright smile and Michael’s cold stare jumping at him in the dark, was enough to make him feel downright ill.

Not, he thought wryly, that it helped that his nerves were on fire the instant Dean stepped close to him.

“Morning!” Dean told him cheerfully, grabbing the order Sam had just brought back from the couple sitting at the corner table.

Castiel glared at him.  “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” he said.  “I would hardly call that ‘morning.’”

Dean shrugged, still smiling.  He twirled the piece of paper with the couple’s drink order around his fingers lazily, leaning against the counter next to Cas instead of starting on the order like he _should_ be doing.  “It is if we say it is.  Come on, Cas, let’s start a movement.  Everything before three o’clock is still morning, what do you say.”

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t been working since six in the morning today,” Castiel muttered darkly.

Dean chuckled.  “Sleep with a pea under your mattress, princess?  You should drink some of this coffee you’re making, cheer you up a bit.”

Castiel shot him another glare.  “I fail to see how consuming even more caffeine will affect my mood,” he said.  Not least because Dean was standing next to him, so close and yet completely out of reach.

Dean’s smile slipped slightly, a tiny frown creasing the bridge of his nose.  “Are you okay?” he asked more seriously, and god _dammit_ all Cas wanted to do was kiss the concern from his face.

He couldn’t.  Of course he couldn’t.  He shouldn’t even be talking to Dean- he’d already strayed too far over the line.  Michael would hate him if he knew.

“I’m fine,” Castiel said, turning away to start making the order that Dean still held limply in his hand.

“Right,” Dean said sarcastically.  “You seem like it.”  He hesitated, then continued in a softer voice.  “Look, if something’s wrong, you can tell me-”

“Dean, I said I’m fine,” Castiel snapped.  He busied himself with the drink order, not allowing himself to look back at Dean; he couldn’t keep encouraging this- whatever this thing was between them.  He had to be a brother that Michael could be proud of.

Even without looking up, he could feel Dean tense.  “Fine, sorry I asked,” Dean muttered.  He dropped the order on the counter and stalked away, all the cheer from just a few seconds ago burned away.

Cas swallowed, resisting the urge to bring him back, smile at him, go back to the bright and happy bubble from the night before.  He’d spent all of his sleepless night trying to purge this idiotic crush from his system.  It was sad how easily it would be to destroy all of that fragile work.

The day went by slowly after that, as if everyone was wading through molasses.  Castiel refused to look at Dean for more than a few seconds at a time, refused to speak to him any more than he needed to, because if he did, he knew he would break in an instant.  After his outburst earlier, Dean seemed perfectly willing to give him some space- a tense, horrible amount of space that was brimming with unfocused frustration and gloom, but space nonetheless.  For his part, Sam took one look at the two of them and quickly made himself as unobtrusive as possible.

The flow of customers reduced to a trickle as the afternoon went on, making it harder and harder for Cas to find excuses not to engage with Dean.  Dean seemed somewhat at a loss as well, halfheartedly cleaning out the almost spotless espresso maker just to have something to do that wasn’t related to Cas.  When the door opened, he perked up like a dog catching a new scent on the breeze- not that Castiel was watching him, because he wasn’t.

“Victor,” Dean said in relief.  “I haven’t seen you in weeks!  You shouldn’t disappear on me like that, man, I was starting to think you’d gotten abducted or something.”

The inspector shook his head as he approached the counter.  Something about his expression made Castiel pause instead of leaping to make Victor’s usual the way he normally did.  “Cut the crap for today, will you?” Victor said heavily.  “I’ve got news, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

Dean frowned and leaned forward.  “What is it?”

Victor sighed and rubbed his face with his hand.  “Crowley wasn’t even going to tell me,” he said.  “He’s too suspicious, he thinks I’ll try to undermine him so that I’ll get his job- that’s what he did to his predecessor, anyway,” Victor added wryly.  “But I still have a few friends at the office, and they told me.”

“Told you what?” Dean asked sharply.

Victor looked grim.  “Crowley is going to inspect Impala Cafe tomorrow morning,” he said.  “And I don’t think he’s going to be too kind, since the last time you two spoke you called him an arrogant dick and then refused to give him an inspector’s fee.”

“You mean I refused to _bribe_ him,” Dean said icily.

Victor waved a hand dismissively.  “Whatever you want to call it, I guarantee you that Crowley is still pissed about it,” he said.  “He’s been itching for a big arrest lately, and I’m sure he would love to make it you.”

Dean’s jaw clenched.  “So there’s nothing you can do to help?” he said, his voice biting.

Victor raised his eyebrows.  “What did you think this was, a social visit?  I’m giving you fair warning, Winchester, because I like you, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to try to have it out with Crowley.  That son of a bitch would have me arrested before I could even start.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He looked a little bit dazed now, as if the prospect of the inspection was only now beginning to register.  “Sorry.  Thanks for the warning, Victor.”

Victor nodded and made to turn around, but stopped, rapping his knuckles on the counter thoughtfully.  “Good luck,” he said quietly.  “I hope you make it through this.”

“Thanks.”

The door clicked shut behind Victor’s receding back, and the cafe was silent.

Cas glanced at Dean, his resolution to avoid him pushed aside by the impending doom of an unfriendly inspector.  Dean was still staring at the door as if he could rewind the last few minutes and replay them with a different outcome.  His face was blank, serene almost, and if Cas didn’t know better, he would think that the news hadn’t affected him at all.

“Dean?” he asked hesitantly.

Dean nodded in answer to a question that Cas hadn’t asked.  “Hold that thought, will you?” he said pleasantly.  He turned around, opened the door to the kitchen, and walked through, still looking calm and composed.  Cas would almost believe it- except as soon as the door swung shut, there was a deafening crash as Dean let out all his frustration on the hapless pile of dirty cookie sheets.

*******

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, leaving bars of shadow and light crossing the cafe in a lattice of dancing dust and sharp edges.  Dean finished cleaning up the tables slowly, wiping away every crumb with more vigor than the task warranted.  The cafe was so quiet that he could practically hear the glances that Cas and Sam kept shooting each other, the silent argument over who would talk to him first.

Sam cleared his throat.  Hardly surprising, since Cas was undoubtedly angry enough at Dean to win out over Sam’s puppy dog eyes, just so that he didn’t have to talk to him.  “Dean-” Sam began.

Dean slapped the cloth he was using on the table loudly, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that both Sam and Cas jumped at the sound.  “Yeah, Sam?” he asked, overly cheerful and he continued to whip the table into cleanliness.

Sam winced.  “Um.  Are you okay?”

_Slap_.  “Of course I am, Sammy.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam hesitated again.  “Well, it’s just that…”   _Slap._  “We don’t have the best track record with Crowley, and if what Victor says is true, then-”

“-We could lose the cafe and you could lose your education and we’ll be carted off to the Institute?” Dean said as fucking pleasantly as he could.  “No fucking shit, Sherlock.”

Sam sighed.  “Look, Dean, we’ll just have to-” _Slap_.  “We just need-” _Slap. Slap. Slap._  “Dean, could you cut it out so we can talk about this?” Sam said sharply.

“Nothing to talk about,” Dean said cheerfully.  His head was pounding with all the things that he couldn’t talk about, especially not with Sam.  “You two should probably just head home and I’ll finish closing up.”

“Dean-”

“Fuck off, Sammy,” Dean said, letting the sharp edges that were currently hollowing him out creep into his voice.

Dean busied himself with closing up, letting Sam throw up his hands in frustration and walk away.  They didn’t _need_ to talk about this.  What was there to say that they didn’t already know?  Everything had to go perfectly tomorrow or they would lose everything, but when the fuck did anything ever go smoothly for the Winchesters?  Especially not when things had been going so well.  They were due at this point.

“Dean,” someone said quietly, and this time it wasn’t Sam.

He stilled at the gentle, hesitant touch on his shoulder.  Just one touch, but it felt like Cas was stripping away all the anger and all the bullshit, leaving his raw and exposed.  Just one touch, but it felt a little bit like absolution.

“I can’t talk about it Cas,” he said quietly.  “Leave it alone.”

He felt Cas shift his weight next to him, and then the touch on his shoulder turned from comforting to guiding as Cas tugged him toward the counter.  “Alright,” Cas said.  “Come on, I’m going to show you something.”

Dean hesitated before following him.  Cas had been angry with him all day, and now he seemed perfectly normal, comforting, friendly even.  As he watched Cas walk behind the counter and grab a mug, Dean realized that he didn’t even have the courage to ask why.

Cas poured the remains of the day’s coffee into the mug, and Dean let his curiosity get the better of him.  “I hope you’re not planning on drinking that,” he said.  “I brewed that coffee four hours ago.”

Cas ignored him, instead wrapping his fingers around the mug and raising his eyebrows at Dean.  “Pay attention,” he said.  His focus snapped back to the mug, his expression shifting to a familiar look of serene concentration.

“What are you-” Dean began, but stopped when something bright swirled inside the mug, then vanished, leaving an ordinary cup of coffee.  “What the hell?”

Cas gave him a little half smile.  “You wanted to learn my tricks, didn’t you?” he said.  “Come here.”

Dean stepped closer.  His heart began to pound when Cas reached over and grabbed his hand, guiding it to wrap around the Melancholia-enriched cup of coffee; when Cas moved his own hand away, Dean felt oddly bereft.

“Do you know why they’re called Melancholia?” Cas asked quietly.  Dean shook his head, frowning.  He had no idea what was going on, except that as a distraction this was working pretty damn well.  Though maybe that had more to do with the soft gravelly tones of Cas’ voice and the heat of his body next to him than anything else.  “The story goes that a long time ago, two children got lost in the woods, and one of them died.  The other was so distraught over the loss of her sister that she began to cry, not as a child would but as an old soul.  But because she was still a child, her imagination got caught on the tears and turned them into butterflies.  When her parents found her, her tears had settled onto her sister as a blanket of shifting colors, full of all the heartbreak of humanity but beautiful all the same.  So they called them Melancholia.”

Dean stared at him.  “Huh,” he said, not sure how to react to the soft sadness in Cas’ voice.

Cas smiled again, the sadness leaving him like it was never there.  “Of course, I’m sure that isn’t true,” he said in a more normal voice.  “As much as the world would like us to believe otherwise, Melancholia aren’t inherently evil or sad or anything else.  They’re just tools that we’re born with, the same way that we’re born with hands or the ability to learn a language.  But someone somewhere down the line decided that they didn’t want people to use them, so here we are, with inspectors and the Institute and laws.  And as we grow up, we learn to suppress our natural Melancholia for our own safety, and many people don’t ever relearn how to tap into that well except to skim the very surface.”

“Illusions,” Dean guessed.

“Exactly.  It’s easier to bend light so that something looks a certain way than it is to actually change it, and without unlearning all the control you’ve subconsciously learned your whole life, it’s difficult to do anything more than that.”

Dean frowned, looking at his hand on the coffee cup.  “So what exactly am I unlearning by holding a cold cup of coffee?” he asked.

Cas’ smile widened.  “Close your eyes,” he said.  Dean looked at him suspiciously- growing up with a younger brother who was also a little shit was enough to make him suspicious of any kind of odd request- but did as he was told.  “I added a Melancholia to the coffee.  Try to feel it.”

Dean frowned, opening his eyes.  “What do you mean, try to feel it?  It’s not actually there, I can’t _touch_ it.”

“Feel it the way you feel a piece of music,” Cas said.  “Sing something, if it helps.  Music can be a good catalyst,” he added wryly.  Dean felt his ears turn red at the memory of their first encounter.

“I’m not going to sing something,” Dean muttered.  He closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate on the cup of coffee.  He had no idea what he was supposed to be ‘feeling’ aside from the smooth contours of the ceramic mug.  There was nothing there _to_ feel-

Something, some sensation like an electrical shock crawled its way up his arm.  He snatched his hand away.  “What the hell?”

Cas smiled at him.  “Congratulations.  You’ve just felt your first Melancholia.”

“Huh,” Dean said, rubbing his hand.  “I wasn’t expecting it to feel like _that_.”

Cas shrugged.  “Every Melancholia feels different, actually, depending on what they do.  I made this one to be obvious for a beginner, to make it easier for you to feel.”  He nodded at the cup.  “Go on, try it again.  This time, really take a moment to understand it.”

Dean rolled his eyes but did as he was told, reaching out to try to find the mildly unpleasant shock hidden in the mug of coffee.  It was easier to find this time, now that he knew what he was looking for; he focused on it for longer, and found that instead of a sharp shock it was more like a dull buzz tingling in his bones, and oddly, a slight pressure on one side of his cheekbone.

“You have it?” Cas murmured.  “Good.  Now try to copy it.”

“What?”

Cas stepped in closer, putting his hand next to Dean’s around the coffee cup.  Their fingers overlapped slightly, and suddenly the swimming in Dean’s head wasn’t from the Melancholia anymore.  “Focus on the Melancholia and try to expand it- relax, though,” he added quickly.  “If you push too hard your defenses will come up and it won’t work.  Just gently guide it into expanding…”

Dean tried to pull his attention back to the Melancholia, but it was nearly impossible.  The entirety of his concentration was focused with laser precision on the places where their fingers touched, where heat was spiraling out of Cas’ body and making Dean shiver, where he could feel Cas’ breath brushing past his face.  If he turned his head just a little bit, if he just leaned forward a little bit, he could close the space between them.  Suddenly, the only thing he could think of was what Cas would taste like if he did-

“Dean!”

The sharp _crack_ was the only warning before the cup of coffee exploded.

“Fuck!” Dean sputtered, wiping lukewarm coffee off his face.  His hand burned when it brushed his cheek; he pulled it away and sighed at the long cut on the back that was beginning to bleed.  “Cas, you alright?” he asked sheepishly.

Cas grabbed a nearby rag and wiped his face off.  “Fine,” he said.  “It’s alright, I should have expected that,” he added ruefully.  “This probably wasn’t the best way to start you off.”

Dean grinned.  “But hey, at least I found out how to make a cup of coffee into a bomb.  That could come in handy someday.”

Cas laughed, but it was cut short when he saw Dean’s hand.  “You’re hurt,” he said, concern crossing his features.

Dean shrugged.  “Just a scratch.  Nothing I haven’t...”  His voice stopped working.  Cas was holding his hand.

Cas examined the scratch with professional eyes, his hands gentle as they cradled Dean’s.  Dean could barely breathe as Cas covered the scratch with his incredibly long- _incredibly sexy_ , Dean’s brain supplied- fingers.

The room spun abruptly, and his arm went numb for an instant.  Dean staggered back as Cas let go of his hand.  The scrape on the back was gone.

“A doctor, huh?” Dean said as his breath came back to him.  He’d never seen anything like that in his entire life, not even when he was working for Alastair.  Nobody could _heal_ using a Melancholia.  Hurt people, yes, but not heal.  It wasn’t possible- yet Cas just did it.

Cas just smiled and shrugged.  “I wouldn’t have been able to do _that_ ,” he said.  “Not without getting caught.”  He shook his head.  “It’s not that difficult anyway.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.  “Well, _I_ think it’s incredible,” he said quietly.

Cas looked up at him.  They were standing close together again, moving closer without realizing it.  Something fluttered in Dean’s stomach, the way it had last night, a tiny insistent voice saying _this is it, this is it, this is it_.

Cas pulled away again, just like he had the night before, looking down at his watch.  He stepped back, clearing his throat.  “I have to go,” he said, not meeting Dean’s eyes.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, staring at him as he walked towards the door.  He was too confused to even complain that Cas was leaving him the shattered mug to clean up.

Cas stopped at the door, glancing back.  “Don’t worry too much about tomorrow,” he said.  “It’s going to be fine.”

Dean swallowed.  “Sure,” he said.  “Nothing to worry about.”

Cas gave him a quick smile and turned to leave.  The door bounced on the frame after him, and the cafe felt cold and empty without his comforting presence.

But as Dean slowly gathered up the pieces from the shattered mug, he felt oddly light, buoyant.  He rubbed the spot on his hand where Cas had healed him, wondering if he was imagining the lingering tingle of Cas’ Melancholia.  Cas was right.  There was no reason to worry about the inspection tomorrow.  After all, he would have his brother and his… and Cas with him.  What could possibly go wrong if he had his family?


	8. The Spy

Cas paused at the back door to Paradiso Cafe, unable to put one foot in front of the other in order to cross the threshold.  He'd gone across it just the night before- but Dean had been in front of him then, pulling him illicitly forward.  Permission- orders- were blocking his way more firmly than a locked door had last night.

Or maybe it was that the pull backwards was too strong, the one that drew him towards the warm, comfortable cafe and the warm, comfortable people.  Dean's smile, Sam's pithy remarks, the mismatched chairs and the glow of the fireplace.  He could go back, forget about his report for today, just walk back to where he'd stood only ten minutes ago, curl up in an armchair with a hot cup of coffee and immerse himself in Dean's company, feeling more at home than he ever did with his family.

But his family was his duty.  He couldn't ignore them, no matter how many shivers were dancing on his bones.

He sighed and stepped inside the cafe.

"Ah, Castiel," Zachariah said as Cas closed the door.  His smile was more befitting of a villain in a cheap vaudeville act than of the manager of a prestigious cafe.  "What have you got to report?"

"Um..." Cas said.  He'd spent most of the week repeating an endless litany of things he should tell Zachariah, in a vain attempt to divert his attention away from Dean's eyes and his smile and the little bit of collarbone that had been peeking out of his shirt today.  And yet, now that it was time for him to actually give the report, his mind was utterly blank.

"Well?" Zachariah said impatiently.  He was rarely anything other than impatient.

"I..." Cas tried again, and once more hit a wall in his mind, one even more impassable than the one across the threshold to the cafe.  His attention slipped away from Zachariah's face, leaving just green eyes sparkling at him over a shattered coffee mug, the air filled with warmth and laughter.  It felt like he was slowly being submerged in icy water to not be there right now, to be here betraying that trust that shone through in Dean's smile, his easy movements, the flickers of his Melancholia.  That trust was the only thing Cas could see.

Except for a little clump of white hiding behind the coffee roaster in the corner.

Baby powder.

Suddenly, it all seemed so ridiculous, so petty.  Why was he even here?  To help in a childish prank war?  Because Michael and Lucifer and even Dean were all too proud to let bygones be bygones, too proud to retain what was left of their dignity by calling a truce?  Cas was accomplishing _nothing_ by spying, not helping this cafe or the other, just perpetuating it all, just risking a friendship that had only just begun to flourish.  If Michael wanted him to help with the family business, he would do it, he would give up his education and everything he had worked for in order to help his family.  But this?  There was no point to this.  No point whatsoever.

"Castiel?" Zachariah asked.  "Do you have anything to report or not?"

Cas looked at him, feeling disgust crawling over his own features and not making any effort to hide it.  "I don't, actually," he said.

Zachariah's eyebrows snapped together.  "Really?" he sneered.  "Do I need to remind you that your _brother_ has asked you to do this?  Or should I just inform Michael that you have failed, and that he shouldn't allow you into the Angelios family business?"

"Failed?" Cas said.  "Because I don't have anything to report on one day, and gave thorough reports to you _every single other day I’ve come_?"

Zachariah snorted.  "Thorough isn't the word I would use," he said.  "You've given me nothing to work with in the past few weeks.  Details about works shifts and frustration with a new coffee maker, _nothing_ that could help us in this feud.  If I didn't know better, I would say that you've been holding out on me.  As it is, I suspect you're just incompetent."

Something snapped inside him.

"Incompetent?" Cas said, anger coiling inside him like a storm building, lightning brewing in his chest.  " _Incompetent?_  You're calling me incompetent for failing to report every minute, insignificant fucking detail?  For allowing good people to retain at least a shred of privacy?  You've asked me to invade their lives, lie, and interfere with their business, what they _live off of_ , all for the sake of some pointless prank war my brother started, and the rest of you are all too proud to stop!  They don't deserve that, any of it!  They don't deserve to be treated like _dirt_ by someone who thinks that they're superior just because their cafe is a little bit dingier.   _Dean Winchester_ doesn't deserve to be tricked and lied to when he's had to fight tooth and nail for everything he has all his life.  And he doesn't deserve _you_ piling more and more on his plate the day before a fucking inspector comes by!"

He stopped at took a deep breath.  He wanted to crush something, punch somebody, and Zachariah's smug face was a prime target.  He had to pull himself together before he did something _really_ stupid-

Except.  Except that Zachariah's face was entirely too smug.  Even for him.  No, not smug.  Gloating... over what Cas had said...

Oh no.

The inspector was coming to Impala Cafe in two days, and Castiel had just told Zachariah what he'd been hiding this whole time.

"You wouldn't," Cas said.  Horror slowly seeped through him, ice burning and numbing him all at once.  He could feel a Melancholia building inside of him, uncontrolled, unintentional, and he could do nothing about it, too submerged in the chill to do anything but struggle to breathe.

Zachariah smiled.  "What did you think this was?  A pointless prank war?" he said mockingly.  "No, Castiel, this is business, and currently that decrepit little cafe is stealing ours.  We're just taking it back."

"If you sabotage the inspection, they could lose everything," Cas hissed.  The Melancholia was slipping out, dark shadows in the corners that Zachariah hadn't noticed yet.  "They'll be sent to the Institute for the rest of their _lives_."

"That's the idea," Zachariah said.  His smile was full of venom.

Castiel turned and fled the room.  His Melancholia came with him.

He ran down the street.  He had to warn Dean.  Find a way to change the date of the inspection.  Secure the cafe against whatever Melancholia Zachariah would plant inside, lock the doors and keep everyone and everything out until the danger had passed.  There had to be something they could do to stop this.  He couldn't let Zachariah strip everything away from the Winchesters because of what Castiel let slip.  He couldn't let Zachariah hurt Dean like that.

Dean.

Castiel stopped in his tracks.  Dean would want to know how Cas found out about Zachariah's plot.  Why he'd been talking to the manager of Paradiso Cafe in the first place.  How he could have let something so crucial slip.  In the very best case scenario, Dean would be furious at him for telling Zachariah about the inspection, not knowing how much Castiel had told Zachariah of his own free will.  Worst case scenario, Dean would find out everything.  Worst case, Dean would hate him.

Cas couldn't bear the thought.

Michael.  He could tell Michael was Zachariah was planning, and Michael could put a stop to it.  It was just a stupid prank war that Gabriel had started and Lucifer had urged on.  Michael was a good man; he wouldn't want to send two good people to the Institute just because of a little, insignificant business rivalry.  He wouldn't.

Castiel turned around and rushed back towards the center of town, towards Michael's townhouse.  His older brother would fix this.

Cas pounded on Michael's door for what felt like an eternity.  The Melancholia, which he'd managed to control- barely- as he'd rushed toward Michael, began to itch under his skin, demanding to be let out, pounding in time with his anxiety.  He couldn't let it out, not here, in full view of the public; but the restless itching was only making it harder to control.

"Castiel," Michael said in surprise as he opened the door.  "What are you-"

"Zachariah is going to send the Winchesters to the Institute," Cas interrupted frantically.

Michael raised his eyebrows.  Without a word, he stepped aside to let Castiel in.  Cas walked into the immaculate house, letting the pounding Melancholia slip just a little bit, so that the corners of the room darkened even more than they had at Paradiso.  If Michael thought anything of it, he didn't comment, just closed the door behind him and led him into the living room.

"Now," Michael said in his calm voice.  "What exactly is going on?"

Dimly, Castiel registered that he was shaking with the force of what could happen.  He swallowed, trying to calm down.  It was going to be okay, he tried to tell himself.  Michael would take care of it.  His older brother would take care of this.  "I told Zachariah that an inspector is due to come to Impala Cafe in tomorrow, and he-"  Castiel took a deep breath.  It was going to be okay.  "He's planning something.  I don't know what.  But whatever it is, it will ruin the inspection, and cause the Winchesters to lose the cafe at the very least, and at the worst land both of them in the Institute."

Michael listened silent, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.  When Castiel was done, he thought for a moment, then nodded and sat down in his favorite armchair, crossing his legs.  He was altogether far too casual given the desperation of the situation.

"So?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

Silence.

Cas took a breath.  And another.  Another.  He knew he was breathing, because he was still alive; but he couldn't feel it.  His body was numb.  He was numb, broken, shattered into pieces like the mug that Dean had broken trying to enrich it with a Melancholia.  He was broken and he couldn't put the pieces back together long enough to understand what was going on.

"Castiel, you seem to be confused about what we've been doing here," Michael said.  "Allow me to enlighten you.  Gabriel may have started this with harmless pranks, but we have long since passed that point.  The Winchesters are hardly innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire.  They have damaged our image, and our image is everything.  They have dared to attack one of the most powerful families in the country, despite the fact that all they have to their name is one small, worthless little cafe.  They need to be punished for their insolence.  This isn't fun, or pride.  This is war, and we will soon win it."

Cas opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He was trapped in his own body, frozen in a nightmare, and he couldn't wake up.

Michael leveled a look at him.  "You didn't think that we'd regained our family fortune by being kind, did you Castiel?"

He couldn't let this happen.  Michael couldn't do this.  He was Castiel's big brother, he was supposed to be solid, dependable, kind, supportive, the way Dean was for Sam.  He was the moral compass, the guiding force; the head of this family.  He wasn't supposed to destroy the happiness of the person Cas loved, just because Dean had dared to fight back.

"Oh, and Castiel," Michael said, standing.  "I believe you've gained enough experience, don't you agree?  You're ready to join the rest of us, become a full-fledged member of this family.  That is, if you cooperate."

The carrot, Castiel recognized distantly.  Somehow, he managed to unstick two words out of his throat.  "Or what?"

"Or you will no longer be Castiel Angelios," Michael said coldly.

The words hit Castiel like a train, running over him in long, clattering shouts that he couldn't even begin to understand.  Not an Angelios.  Not a part of the family.  Cut off from everything he'd ever known.  All alone in the world.

"I..." Castiel said.  "I have to go."

"I'm warning you, Castiel," Michael said as Castiel turned woodenly back to the door.  "If you even talk to Dean Winchester again, warn him in any way, I will know about it, and that will be it for you.  You will no longer be my brother.  Do you understand me?  Castiel?"

Michael's words chased him out the door, all the way back to his own house, clinging to him in the freezing fog of his own making.


	9. Melancholia

The next day dawned with the spectacular fanfare of a sunny day in late winter, the first day of a false spring.  The snow left on the ground began to melt under the sun's gentle rays, pooling on the cobblestone streets and under people's feet as dirty muck, no longer the pristine white blanket that fell the day before.  The streets were crowded in a way that they rarely were, filled with people spent too long in the dark and the cold, yearning for the touch of sun on their skin.

As Castiel ran down the street, he barely felt the warmth, the simple joy of nice weather.  Even running as quickly as he could, his heart pounding and his body heating from the exertion, he was ice cold, numb with dread.  He had to fix this.  He had to- but he had no time, the inspector could come any minute, and _he needed to fix this._

"Dean!" he shouted, bursting through the back door of Impala Cafe.  The front doors were still closed- they hadn't opened yet, there was still time, he could still do this.  He ignored Benny and Sam's twin stares and headed straight for Dean.  "Dean, I need to talk to you, it's urgent."

Dean looked up from where he was checking inventory and frowned, holding out a hand towards Castiel as if to steady him without even touching him.  "Cas?  Are you alright?" he said, concern making him tense.

Castiel blinked.  He hadn't slept the night before, lost in worry and fear and hurt and indecision, he hadn't even changed his clothes or combed his hair, and he was panting from running all the way here; but Dean was _missing the point_ , because sometimes there were more important things.  "I'm fine," he said firmly.  "I just need you to do something for me."

"What?" Dean said, narrowing his eyes, as if this was all a joke, another prank, all fun and games until someone was wasting away in a cell in the high security wing of the Institute.

Castiel took a deep breath.  "I need you- all of you- to leave the cafe for a few hours," he said in a rush.

Dean stared at him.  "You want us to _what_?" he asked incredulously.  "It's a business day, Cas, I can't just-"

"Please, Dean, this is important," Castiel interrupted.  "You have to listen to me.  Keep the cafe closed for the day.  Go somewhere else, somewhere far away.  Take a break, take the day off, a few days off, _anything_ as long as you aren't _here_."

"Cas, what the hell is going on?" Dean said sharply.  "I can't keep the cafe closed today, you _know_ that.  The inspector is coming today, and if I don't-"

"That's exactly why you need to leave," Castiel insisted.  "If you don't, something terrible is going to happen."

"Like what?" Benny interjected.  "The hell you on about, Cas?"

"This doesn't concern you," Castiel snapped at him, his patience splintering under the stress.  Benny had nothing to do with any of this, why was he trying to interfere?

Benny opened his mouth to retort when Sam stepped between them.  "It concerns all of us, Cas," Sam said.  "We work here too, you know, and you're asking a lot without any explanation."

"Cas."

Castiel turned back to Dean, fraying at the edges with no hope of ever sewing them back together.  Dean met his eyes firmly, betraying the concern lurking in their depths, the old shadows of the past and whatever else Dean was carrying with him coming out from the corners.  "What's going on, Cas?" he said quietly.

Castiel swallowed.  He couldn't tell them.  He couldn't.  They wouldn't listen to him, he knew they wouldn't.   _Dean_ wouldn't listen.  He would be betrayed, hurt, furious, and all reason would be forgotten in the face of it.  If Castiel told them who he really was, everything would be lost.

But if he didn't tell them, everything might be lost anyway.

"I- I can't tell you," he said.  "Not now.  You just have to trust me, close the cafe and go home.  Please Dean."

Dean was silent for a long time, searching his face as if he could read the answer in his eyes.  For a moment, Castiel let himself hope- Dean trusted him, Dean liked him, he would listen, he would leave.  But then Dean shook his head.

"Cas," he said, his voice gentle.  "I can't reschedule this inspection.  It's not Victor coming by to take a quick look, it's the freaking head of the department doing a thorough investigation.  I could lose the cafe if I'm not here when Crowley comes.  I'm sorry, but we have to stay open today.  Maybe if- Cas!"

Castiel barely heard him, turning on his heel and rushing out the door.  There was an itch under his skin, a well-ordered shiver from a Melancholia: Michael had already started to build it, and Castiel was the only one who could feel it.  And no one would listen to him.

He had to do something.  He couldn't let this happen.  He had to fix this.

He ran, and stopped just short of Paradiso Cafe.

Michael was sitting in front of it, looking for all the world as if he was enjoying a morning cup of coffee in the warm sunshine.  He even had this morning's paper in front of him- but his eyes were fixed on Impala Cafe, his lips moving slightly, power cackling all around him.  Michael was the only person Castiel knew who could use a Melancholia from this distance, who could create one so powerful, one that Castiel couldn't hope to dismantle.  There was no way that he could interrupt what Michael was doing.

But there was something else that he could do.

Michael hadn't seen Castiel standing there, too intent on the other cafe.  Castiel slunk off to the side, making his way towards the alley that lay next to Paradiso without drawing Michael's attention.  From there, he had a clear view of the street, and more importantly, the corner around which the inspector would have to come.

Any minute now.

Castiel could feel Michael's Melancholia buzzing underneath his own skin, a tiny ripple from the source only a few feet away from him, and a tidal wave where it would ruin Sam and Dean Winchester's lives.  Already it was stronger than anything Castiel could ever create, stronger than anything Dean could do to stop it.

Any minute now.

_There._  The inspector came around the corner, dressed in a black suit rather than the uniform, the only indication of his profession the pin stuck to his lapel, and the sharp air of experience around him.  He wouldn't be able to feel the Melancholia, not yet, not with the very basic training inspectors had in detecting Melancholia- but he'd be able to see it as soon as he reached Impala Cafe, and it would all be over.

Castiel put his hands on the solid brick of the cafe his family had built their entire fortune on.  The symbol of everything they valued, the place he was supposed to think of as home.  For a split second, he hesitated.  This was worse than going against Michael's orders.  This was everything.  This was his home.  This was his family.

But he'd never even been to Paradiso Cafe until a few months ago, and his brothers had never felt as much like a family as the two boys laughing and teasing in the comfortable cafe across the street.

He glanced at the inspector, now passing Paradiso without even noticing Michael sitting there.  This was his only chance.

He might not be able to stop Michael's Melancholia.  But he could make one of his own.

The flash that pulsed from around Paradiso and around Michael was so bright that the world disappeared beneath it, becoming nothing more than shifting shadows and darkened spots that moved without relation to anything under the sun.  Castiel pushed through the blindness, following the flash with crashes, bangs, hisses, colors, chaotic nothings that drew the attention of anyone nearby, that screamed _Melancholia_ to the entire block.  To the inspector passing by.

"What the-" he heard Michael say, then the pulse of Michael's own Melancholia flare out of control, just a little, with his own anger.  It curled around Michael, seeking its own source, drawing away from Impala Cafe, and that was all Cas needed.  "Castiel-" Michael hissed, but another voice interrupted him.

"Well, isn't this an embarrassment of riches," someone drawled.  "Lose control, did you?"

"What?"  Michael's Melancholia vanished, snapping back under his control.  "No, sir, I was just-"

The inspector laughed, a cruel thing that spoke of someone who had an unpleasant job, and enjoyed it.  "You must think I'm an idiot," he said, almost kindly.  "Don't worry, you'll soon be cured of that assumption, over at the Institute."  There was a clink of handcuffs.

"I'm not- No!  Wait!" Michael snapped.  "I can pay!  I'm Michael Angelios, don't you know who I _am_?"

"Frankly, angel boy, I don't give a shit," the inspector said.  "The only thing I care about is if you'll come quietly, or if I'm allowed to use some excessive force."  Silence, then the handcuffs snapped together.  "Good choice.  Maybe this way you'll get one of the nicer guards, one of them that actually feeds prisoners."

The inspector marched Michael forward, in front of the alley where Cas was hidden.  Relief washed through him like warm water after freezing snow, almost painful in its suddenness.  Cautiously, he stepped out of the alley to watch the inspector take Michael down the street, away from Impala Cafe, away from everything.  He'd done it.  He'd saved Sam and Dean.  Fixed his mistake.  It was over.

Michael looked around as if he'd heard him, meeting his eyes with deadly force.  His expression shifted to one of cold hard fury, and the relief that had warmed Cas only a moment before disappeared.  Michael knew what he had done, and now his older brother hated him for it.

"Cas!"

The shout was the only warning he got before a fist flew at his face, knocking him over with painful accuracy.  He slammed against the cobblestones, blood welling from the cut on his face.

" _Traitor_ ," Lucifer hissed at him, hauling him up by his lapels.  He punched Cas again, and again, and again, and Cas was too dazed to fight back, to register anything other than his brother doing his best to beat him to death.

"Hey!"

Another thud as a punch landed- but not on Cas' face, and the hands holding on to him dropped away.  He staggered, blinking through the swelling around his eyes, and saw Dean hitting Lucifer once again, shoving him away so that Dean stood between Cas and his attacker.

"Get out of my way Winchester," Lucifer said.  "Do you have any idea what this idiot just did?  To Michael?  To our family, you ungrateful little _brat_ -"

"Was it the same thing Michael was trying to do to _my_ family?" Dean interrupted coldly.  "If you know what's good for you, you'll get the fuck out of here, Angelios, because I would _love_ to kick the everliving shit out of you."

"You're defending him?"  Lucifer barked out a laugh without the tiniest hint of amusement.  "After he spied on you for _months_ , you're still defending him?"

The world froze.  At least, Dean and Cas did.  The silence was deafening, roaring in Cas' ears, and the only thing echoing in his mind was _Dean_.

"Spied?"  Dean's voice was harsh, strangled by shock and disbelief.

"You didn't know?" Lucifer said cruelly.  "Castiel here only wandered into your little cafe by accident, but we turned it into an advantage pretty quickly.  And our dear little brother Castiel followed every order to the letter, like a good little soldier, giving us all your secrets while pretending to be your friend-"

"Dean," Cas croaked, panic welling up in a flood.   _Don't listen to him, don't listen to him, you didn't listen to me before,_ but it didn't matter, Dean had heard Lucifer.  "Dean, I didn't-"

"And then he gave away your biggest secret yet," Lucifer pushed on ruthlessly.  "He told us exactly when the inspector was coming so that we could finish you off once and for all- until the spineless bastard lost his nerve, and ruined us all."  Lucifer advanced, and Dean let him, still frozen in shock.  Cas took a step back, and Lucifer sneered.  "Our whole family will face an inquiry because of you.  Our entire fortune confiscated, and we'll be left with _nothing_.  You've ruined us, Castiel, your family, _your brothers_ -"

Dean's elbow connected with his temple, and Lucifer dropped to the ground like a stone.

Dean stared at him, panting, not looking at Cas at all.  Cas couldn't move, though every instinct was screaming at him to run, get away, disappear into thin air, _anything_ \- but exhaustion had finally claimed him, numbing the fear and the pain and the world except for the single word.   _Dean._

He swallowed.  "Dean-" he whispered.

"Brothers," Dean said.  He finally looked up, and the blankness in his eyes chilled Cas even more than the cold hatred in Michael's had.  "They're your brothers."

Cas swallowed and nodded.

"You're an Angelios.  Castiel Angelios, not Novak."

He nodded again. _Not anymore_ , a little voice whispered to him.  Now he was neither.

"You're Castiel Angelios, and you told them-"  Dean stopped, his jaw tightening.  "What was the plan, then?  Keep lying to us until it wasn't convenient anymore?  Keep pretending to be my friend until you got tired of leading me on?"

"I was just-" Cas began.

"Shut up," Dean snapped.  "I don't care.  You lied to me.  You told them our secrets, you tried to ruin _everything_ \- Get out.  Get the fuck out of here, and don't you ever, _ever_ let me see you again, or I swear to God I will finish the job your _brother_ started."

Something was welling inside Cas, a numbness creeping into his lungs and drowning him.  "Dean," he whispered again, but it wouldn't do any good.  He was lost, and there was nothing he could say to find his way back to the light.

"Get the fuck away from me," Dean snarled, and turned his back on him.  Cas watched him leave, standing in the middle of the street with his face swollen and bleeding, his hands shaking with exhaustion, his lungs seizing with grief.

He was all alone in the world.  He'd lost them all.  Both of his families gone, all because of his own stupid mistakes.


	10. Family

Cas dropped the pile of books into the empty box.  They collapsed from a tall tower into a disorganized mess that he would have to reorganize if he wanted to fit the rest of his books in there with them.  More work, more organizing and packing and putting away that was draining what little energy he had until he felt as if he'd died a long time ago, but no one had bothered to tell him.

Well, there was no one who would.

He stared at the books, willing himself to bend over and properly organize them, but his body refused to move.  Moving was much harder when every inch of him was numb; some days, he managed fairly well, but others...  Today was beginning to look like one of the latter.

Maybe he could just leave all his things here.  Lucifer would be forced to deal with them, acknowledge his existence.  Then again, given the way their last encounter had gone, Cas was fairly sure he didn't want Lucifer to acknowledge his existence.  It had been a month, and the area around his nose was still tender from the beating.

He shied around that memory.  He couldn't afford to think about that day, those months, that happier time in his life and its disastrous conclusion if he wanted to do anything other than stay in bed all day.

He sighed and rubbed his face.  This was pathetic.  He was pathetic.  Instead of trying to fix things, mend his own life into something the tiniest bit functional, he'd spent a month moping about everything that had happened.  A month thinking uselessly of something he'd irrevocably lost.  Pathetic.

He knelt down and slowly began moving the books into some semblance of an order, trailing his fingers through them as if they were water, the words and ink and paper washing meaninglessly over insensitive skin.  He didn't have the strength or the energy to control his Melancholias anymore, letting them slip out whenever they began to build.  There were permanent dark shadows scattered around him nowadays.  Maybe a Melancholia was what was making him so cold and numb- or maybe it was just his mistakes that were burying him in ice until he suffocated.  It didn't really matter which.

The books were still disorganized, but he found that he no longer cared.  He sighed again and stood.  Maybe he should just lie down again.  He'd been up for several hours, that counted for something, right?  If he lay down, maybe he could sleep, sleep for years and years until all his problems disappeared, and he'd wake up to a better life.

He was halfway to the bedroom when a pounding on the door stopped him in his tracks.

He stared.  Nobody came here, not since that day he'd fucked it all up.  He didn't have anyone left who was willing to visit him.

The door opened before he could move to answer it- or maybe not answer it, he hadn't quite decided yet- and the next thing he knew, he was being handed a suitcase while his estranged older brother rushed into the kitchen.

"So what kind of food do you have lying around?" Gabriel called.  "I'm starved."

Dazedly, Cas set the suitcase down where he stood and followed Gabriel into the kitchen.  He hadn't seen his brother in years, even before Gabriel had been unceremoniously disowned.  He couldn't imagine what Gabriel was doing here now.

"Gabriel?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"The one and only," Gabriel said, his voice muffled from where he was rummaging in the pantry.  "Do you seriously only have bread, potatoes, and a jar of tomato sauce to eat?  Don't you have anything sweet?"

"I-" Cas said.  "Yes, I, um..."  He shook his head to clear it.  "I could make something, I suppose."

Gabriel came out of the pantry and slapped Cas on the back.  "Good man," he said, grinning.

Gabriel chattered at him as Cas mixed some dough to make almond cookies, never once explaining why he was here or for how long, but giving Cas a full report on the state of the roads between here and the capital.

Cas barely heard him.  He felt like he was in some bizarre dream where nothing made sense but he was expected to go along with it anyway.  Gabriel couldn't be here; it was impossible.  Even if Cas had been expelled from the family just as Gabriel had, they'd never been close.  Gabriel had barely noticed that Cas existed except to tease him mercilessly when Cas screwed up, and Cas had always found Gabriel frustrating and a bit of a nuisance, even though Gabriel was three years older than him.  It was hard for him to respect someone who had routinely bullied everyone around him on the basis that they "needed to be taken down a peg."  From what he'd heard, Gabriel hadn't changed much over the years.  He'd been the one to start the whole prank war, after all, just because he'd thought that Dean was arrogant.  As if the Angelios family was any better.

"Castiel?  Are you listening?"

Cas blinked and realized he'd been staring at his own motionless hand as it loosely gripped the spoon.  He began stirring again, aware that Gabriel was watching him.  "Sorry," he said quietly.  "I'm just tired."

"Ah."

"So... why are you here?" Cas asked, unable to think of a more tactful way to say it.  He wasn't even sure if he should be tactful.  It might be better to just be rude.

Gabriel rolled his eyes.  "Like I _already_ said, prices were getting a little high in the capital, so I'm moving back here.  With Michael locked up, and Lucifer dealing with _that_ whole mess, I don't have to deal with anyone from the family at my throat for coming back.  And I figured that since you're on the outs with the family too, I'd just stay with you until I got my own place."

Cas' spine stiffened.  "You heard about what happened?" he said, going for calm and casual and missing the mark completely.

"That you flipped your shit and got Michael arrested?  Yeah, I heard," Gabriel said cheerfully.  "Who hasn't?"

Cas felt sick.  Of course everyone knew what happened- even if Michael Angelios getting arrested by an inspector wasn't enough to get tongues wagging, Lucifer and Cas' brawl over it in the middle of the street certainly was.

"How is old Dean-o doing these days?" Gabriel asked.  He raised his eyebrows when Cas looked at him sharply.  "He _is_ the one you did all that for, right?  His head hasn't re-inflated without Paradiso there to keep him humble, has it?"

Cas swallowed.   _Dean_.  "I..." he said, and cleared his throat.  "I wouldn't know.  He- he found out I'd been working for Michael, and he fired me."   _Get the fuck away from me_ was what he'd said, and even just thinking about it made Cas feel like he was breaking all over again.

Gabriel was silent for a moment.  "Seriously?" he said finally.  "You _told_ him?  I thought you were supposed to be the smarter brother."

Cas looked away, not bothering to correct him, tell him that Lucifer had been the one to tell Dean everything.  That it would have been better if Cas had told him, instead of letting Lucifer spit with vicious pleasure the worst possible version of the truth.  "Apparently not," he said simply.

Gabriel hummed in agreement, then laughed.  "Well, welcome to my neck of the woods.  Speaking of which, how are those cookies coming along?"

The conversation moved on- or rather, Gabriel moved on, unconcerned with the fact that Cas barely participated except in one word answers.  He didn't seem particularly concerned with anything, but then again, that was Gabriel.  He'd cared when Michael and Lucifer fought, he cared when he thought someone was being an asshole, but he didn't seem to care about anything else.  Maybe that was a better way to go through life, not caring.  Maybe that was what Cas had to become now.  Uncaring and cold, existing rather than living.  He couldn't think of some other way to go on.

***

"You're not _fine_ Dean, I know you," Sam said, the concern in his voice overshadowed by exasperation.

"What do you want me to say?" Dean snapped, setting the cookie sheet of freshly baked scones onto the counter with a bit more vigor than he really needed, sending the scones skidding off the sheet and onto the tiles.  "Oh no, Sammy!  I'm so unhappy that my business is doing well and that my brother is getting good grades in all his classes!  Woe is me!"

Sam rolled his eyes.  "That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it.  Dean, it's been a month, you need to get over this.  At least talk to me about it."

"About what?"

"What the fuck do you think?  Ca-"

The sound of the bell on the front door interrupted him.  "Oh, sorry Sam, customer," Dean said hurriedly.  "I'll go ahead and handle this, alright?  Good talk."  He strode into the front room without giving Sam time to answer.  Why couldn't his brother leave well enough alone?  He was _fine_ , so what was the point in bringing up the past?

Except when he walked into the front room of the cafe, the past was staring him right in the face with an idiotic, mischievous smile.

He stopped in his tracks.  "Get out," he snarled.

Gabriel's smile only widened further.  "Good to see you too, Dean," he said.

"I'm serious Gabriel, get the fuck out of here," Dean said.  "This is my cafe, and if you don't leave-"

"You'll do what?" Gabriel scoffed.  He stepped back when Dean advanced, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.  "Alright, alright, I'll admit that whole prank thing got out of hand.  But hey, _I_ wasn't the one who let it get nasty, remember?  I've been in the capital for two years!"

Dean ground his teeth.  "What do you want?" he said.

Gabriel shrugged.  "What, a guy can't take a look around his home town?"  Dean glared at him, and he sighed.  "Fine.  I need to talk to you.  It's about Castiel."

Dean's breath froze in his chest.  He glanced at the back room, where Sam would be exiting any minute now.  He looked back at Gabriel and jerked his head toward the front door, leading the way outside before Gabriel could say anything.  He crossed his arms against the cold and glared at Gabriel, making sure his lungs were working again before he said anything.  "Well?" he snapped.  "What about him?"

Gabriel raised his eyebrows at the secrecy, and Dean tensed, because he was _not_ about to explain to Cas' _brother_.  But Gabriel just shrugged and said, "He's being fucking depressing is what."

"What?"

"Look, I've been staying with him the past few days, and the only thing he does is sit around the house, staring off into the distance, on a good day.  Most of the time he doesn't even get out of bed.  It's ridiculous.  There dark shadows _everywhere_ , and I mean literal dark shadows, because apparently he doesn't have any control whatsoever anymore, and I'm getting pretty sick and tired of it, to be honest."

"And why are you telling _me_?" Dean asked sharply, though a thread of worry was twisting in his gut.  Misplaced worry, he reminded himself.  He had never known the real Cas, not through the lies and the spying.  There was no reason to be worried about someone he'd never known.  "If you don't like it, just don't stay there.  Or deal with it yourself- you're his brother, I think you can handle it."

Gabriel let out an exasperated sigh.  "Does it look like I can afford to live in the city on my own?" he said.  "And yeah, I could deal with it, but in case you haven't noticed, Castiel and I aren't exactly _close_."

"No, really?" Dean said sarcastically.  "Are you even capable of being close with someone?"

Gabriel waved a hand.  "Sticks and stones, Dean-o.  The point is, I'm not exactly qualified to cheer him up enough to make living with him bearable.  But you are."

"Are you kidding me-"

"You're one of the only people that Castiel has ever made a meaningful connection with," Gabriel interrupted.  "And you know what, you're one of the reasons why he's so fucking miserable to be around, so yeah, I think that makes you a little bit qualified."

"A meaningful connection?" Dean asked incredulously.  He felt slightly sick, thinking about all that had happened, how happy he'd been not knowing.  "I don't know if you know this, but your brother lied to me, spied on me, and tried to ruin me and my brother's lives, so whatever bond you think exists between us, it isn't real."

Gabriel stared at him.  "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said.  "You like him too, don't you?  Fucking idiots, I swear."

"I- what?  I don't- What do you mean, I like him too? Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"Yeah, I did," Gabriel said.  "You think that Castiel, the worst liar that I've ever met, constructed a whole new persona just to fool you and spy on your stupid little cafe.  And that is just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.  Might I remind you that the only reason you know about _any_ of this is because my idiot little brother cares about you so much that he destroyed his entire family just so that Michael wouldn't destroy _yours_."

Dean swallowed.  More than anything else, Dean had been avoiding the memory of Cas' face when he tried to warn him, the relief as he was watching Michael being led away, the broken expression when Dean told him to fuck off.   _It doesn't matter_ , Dean told himself, because Cas had caused it all; but it did, of course it did.  He knew what it meant, that Cas hadn't faked it all, that Cas had cared- but he couldn't let himself think about that.  Just because Cas had cared didn't mean that he hadn't lied.

"Alright, look," Gabriel said, sighing.  "Let me tell you something about Castiel.  One of the reasons we've never been close is that for most of his life, Castiel has followed Michael around like Michael was his own personal god.  He'd do anything he told him to do, because Michael was the head of the family.  Sometimes he'd grumble or complain about it, but he'd always do it eventually.  Michael has always known it too, takes full advantage whenever he can.  Like when Castiel accidentally got hired at your cafe instead of ours, and Michael saw an opportunity to sabotage you."

"But he still-"

"He did it for his family, Dean," Gabriel said.  "Which is more than I can say about myself, to be brutally honest.  He did all of it for his _brother_.  Is there anything that you wouldn't do for your brother?"

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it.  There had never been and never would be anything he wouldn't do for Sam, and Gabriel knew it.  Hell, if Dean had been in Cas' position, he might have done the exact same thing, and that stung.

"Look, just go talk to him.  That's it.  Give him something to think about other than the fact that you shut him out the first time he ever did anything for someone other than Michael, so that I can live somewhere where I can see where the fuck I'm going."

And with that, Gabriel turned and walked away, leaving Dean with a pounding heart and no idea what to do.

***

Knocking on the door roused Cas from sleep, which was unusual enough that he stayed awake instead of dropping right back into his dreams of a warm place and a vague, bright smile.  For a moment, he wondered why Gabriel wasn't getting the door- his brother had made himself at home more quickly than Cas would have thought possible, even with Cas' request that he make it easier rather than harder for Cas to pack.  But no, Gabriel had gone out, said he wouldn't be back until the morning.  Cas hadn't asked, and Gabriel hadn't mentioned; but that meant that Cas was the one who had to answer the door.

He glanced at the clock- 9:00 at night, so it only _felt_ ungodly- and wondered idly what would happen if he didn't get up to answer the door.  If he never got up again.  Would anyone even notice?

Someone knocked again, hesitantly.  This mystery person, at least, would notice that he hadn't answered the door.  Whether or not they would care, of course, was another question entirely.

He sighed and stumbled to his feet.  At least after he answered the door, whoever it was would leave him alone.  It was what everyone did.  His life nowadays was nothing if not predictable.

He had to revise that thought as soon as the door swung open.  Apparently there were a few surprises left for him after all.

"Hi," Dean said awkwardly.  "Can I- um.  Is this a bad time?"

Cas touched his hair, tousled beyond all repair from spending most of his time lying on it.  "No, it's- it's fine," he said, unable to keep himself from staring.  Dean was here.  At his house.  Talking to him.  Looking at him, not with the twisted hurt and fury he'd worn the last time they'd seen each other, but with a studied neutrality.  Dean was here.  "Come in."

Dean hesitated, then slipped inside, carefully not touching Cas at all.  Cas closed the door slowly, then turned to find Dean looking around the room awkwardly.

"This is a nice place," Dean said.  "Definitely nicer than mine.  I-"  His eyes fell on the stubborn curl of a Melancholia that refused to dissipate, leaving streaks of shadow everywhere there should have been bright lights.  Dean cleared his throat.  "What's with the boxes?" he asked, gesturing toward the half-packed boxes scattered around the room.

Cas shrugged.  "The house belongs to Michael," he said.  "And since all of the Angelios properties were seized, I have to be out by the end of the month."

Dean frowned.  "You're moving?  Where?"

"Dean, why are you here?"

Dean's false cheer deflated, leaving uneasiness and anxiety in its place.  "Right," he said, shifting his weight and crossing his arms defensively in front of him.  "I need to talk to you."

Cas waited, but Dean didn't follow that statement with anything else.  "What about?" he prompted eventually.  If Dean was just here to yell at him more, he wished Dean would just get it over with.  This was painful enough as it was.

Dean sighed and ran his hand over his face.  "Okay look.  I'm still mad at you.  I trusted you, and it turned out you were lying to me the whole time, and I don't know if I can ever trust you again."

"Dean-" Cas began, not sure what he was going to say.  'I'm sorry?'  'I fucked up?'  'I love you so much, please forgive me, I'll do anything?'  Dean wouldn't want to hear any of it.

Dean shook his head.  "I'm not done," he said.  He took a deep breath before continuing.  "I'm still mad at you, but I wanted to tell you that... that I get it.  I know why you did it.  I know how it is to want to do anything for your family.  Hell, I've even-"  He stopped, eyes darting away.  He was silent for a moment, before the words tumbled out as if he couldn't help himself.  "There was this man, Alastair.  He was part of the mob my dad was working for back in the day.  He was the guy who made sure everyone stayed under Azazel's thumb, and he was... vicious.  Even dad wouldn't help him, the stuff that he did to people, but...  But there was one summer when dad was gone for months tracking down the guys that killed my mom.  I had to take care of Sam, except that Sammy got sick, sick enough that he had to go to the hospital.  And the only way I could make enough money to help pay the hospital bills was... helping Alastair."

Cas stared at Dean- beautiful, kind, wonderful Dean- and marveled at the things he'd been through, the things he was sharing.  This is what Cas had seen in that Melancholia so long ago now, the beautiful colors only made brighter by their contrast with the shadows lurking beneath.  It was strange to think that Dean had shared so much of himself with Cas before he even knew him, and was doing it again now when he no longer trusted him.

Dean swallowed, his face pale and his eyes haunted.  "Anyway," he said.  "The point is, there isn't anything that I wouldn't do for Sam, and I know that you were just doing the same for your family."

Cas gave the floor a small, sad smile.  "I guess I can't really say that they were, too," he said quietly.  He looked back up at Dean, feeling the spaces between them that he'd put there himself like a physical ache beneath his ribcage.  "Thank you, Dean," he continued.  "You have no idea how much it means to me that you came here.  I know I don't deserve it, but... it was nice to hear."

"Hey," Dean said, frowning.  "I never said you didn't deserve some fucking _acknowledgement_ of why you did it in the first place-”

"It's okay, Dean," Cas said with a shrug.  "You don't have to defend me.  I messed up.  I should have said no to Michael in the first place.  Or told you what was going on right away.  Or never walked into your cafe in the first place."

Dean's face fell, hurt bleeding out of the lines beside his eyes.  "Cas-"

"It's okay," Cas insisted.  "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, or your friendship, so you don't have to pretend to give it to me."  He smiled wryly.  "I'd rather not have any more lies between us."

Dean's expression shifted, from sadness, to frustration, to hurt, to something else that Cas didn’t recognize.  He opened his mouth, closed it, stepped forward, hesitated, then muttered, "Fuck it."

He strode up to Cas, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him.

Cas froze in shock, barely able to feel the blissful warmth of Dean's lips through his surprise.  The kiss was hard and desperate, and by the time it had begun to chase away the numbness in Cas' veins, Dean was pulling away.

Cas stared at Dean, and Dean stared at the floor, the ceiling, the wall, anywhere that wasn't back at him.  His face was beet red, his hand moving in awkward fidgets.  "I-" Dean said, stepping away.  "Sorry, I just-"  He huffed a strangled laugh.  "No more lies, right?"  He cleared his throat.  "I'll just-"  He moved toward the door, beating a hasty retreat while Cas just stood there, still frozen in the center of the room.  But Dean paused at the door, then turned back to Cas with nothing but earnest honesty in his face.  "You deserve it, Cas," he said.  "I'm sorry that you don't believe it, but you do.  You deserve..."  He swallowed and grabbed the door handle.  "Well, see you," he said pitifully, opening the door to walk away from Cas yet again.

Cas walked over without any kind of conscious direction, most of him still caught in a daze from Dean's kiss.  He slammed the door shut before Dean had a chance to slip out of his life again, run away and leave him frozen and hurting without him.

"Cas, what-"

He ignored Dean's surprised gasp as he crowded him against the door and slid his fingers into his hair.  The gasp quickly turned into a soft moan as Cas fit their lips together to kiss him within an inch of his life.

Dean's hands found their way up Cas' sides, sending sharp stabs of heat spiraling through his ice-cold body, giving it life again.  He found himself trembling, overwhelmed with sensations after so long spent numbed to everything- the long line of heat connecting their bodies, the brush of breath against his skin, the sharp pull of teeth on his bottom lip, the wet warmth of Dean's tongue slipping into his mouth.

They broke apart eventually, their faces still close enough that their breaths loomed across each other's cheeks, seeking out the touch of the other's mouth once more.

"Dean," Cas whispered.  "I'm so sorry about what I did to you."

Dean leaned in and kissed him sweetly, almost innocently.  "And what about what you did for me?" he said quietly.  "You destroyed your family for me.  Do you regret that part?"  Genuine anxiety roughened his voice, and his fingers tightened in the folds of Cas' shirt.

In response, Cas yanked him forward again into a deep, filthy kiss he could feel all the way down to his toes.  Dean responded enthusiastically, until the world had dropped away, leaving just lips and tongues and teeth and hands and _heat_ that was slowly driving Cas crazy, until everything was _Dean_.

"God, Cas," Dean gasped, pulling even closer, until there wasn't a single inch of space between them.  "I missed you so much."

"You too," Cas said as Dean latched onto a spot on his neck.  "I- hnn- I was so alone without you, I couldn't-"  The rest of his words were caught in Dean's mouth as he moved back up to capture Cas' lips.

They made their way haphazardly through the house toward Cas' bedroom, tripping over boxes, laughing, pressing against each other because neither could resist the lure of the other's skin for long.  It took Cas three tries to grab the doorknob, too distracted by Dean's wandering hands to do anything but pant against the door.

Cas had never felt anything like this, and in the brief moment before he fell backwards on the bed and Dean's weight in all the right places blacked out all coherent thought, he wondered if he would ever feel anything like this again.  Every sensation was so bright that they were all bordering on pain, building and building after so long in the dark and the cold, and he couldn't get enough of it.  He wasn't going to last long at this rate, not with Dean's fingers unbuttoning his clothes and Dean's mouth trailing down his chest and Dean's breaths gasping in tangent with his.  But honestly, he couldn't care less.

"Dean," he panted as Dean's fingers- oh god those fingers- twisted just right, sending waves of pleasure up through his body.  "Dean- oh god, right there- I-"

"I know," Dean said.  He rubbed against Cas with a blind helplessness, lost in it all, and the friction and the pressure and addictive taste of Dean in Cas' mouth was slowly driving him insane.  "Me too.  God, Cas- _oh_ \- I need you."

Cas stood on a precipice that led somewhere he'd never been, somewhere he'd never known existed, too busy looking elsewhere to see it.  He could feel it pulling at him with sharp lightning strikes of pleasure and something deeper, some slow current bearing inexorably toward the edge.  All he wanted to do was take that step and fall into those unknown depths.

"Dean," he gasped, "I love you-" and that was it, he was falling off the ledge, and through the rushing pleasure he heard Dean repeating his words as he came- "I love you too Cas, oh god I love you."

Their bodies relaxed against each other, boneless and spent.  Dean leaned forward and kissed him, sweetly, chastely, as if there wasn't come drying between them, as if he was something to be cherished, treasured.  "Cas," he murmured, as if he was tasting the world all over again, turning it over his tongue to see how it fit, to see if it could stay there forever.  "Cas," he said again, and wrapped him in the circle of his arms.

Dean fell asleep like that, curled around him in a ball of heat, staving off the frigid air that had once permeated this house.  Cas stayed awake, tracing his features with his eyes as he slept.  Everything wasn't fixed between the two of them, not yet, not completely.  The shadows lingering in the corners of the room might have disappeared, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t return.  The spring hadn't fully come yet to chase away the snow and the wind and the clouds; they had a long way to go before the reached the heat of summer.  The warmth of Dean's arms might not last forever, might one day slip away despite everything.  Love didn't mean trust; it didn't mean truth; it didn't mean forever, not when their today was so uncertain.  But for now, they were together.  For now, they weren't alone.

"No more lies," Cas promised, then closed his eyes and fell asleep in the blissful warmth of Dean's affection.


End file.
